


An Incomplete Happiness

by BlossomsintheMist



Series: Mixing Memory and Desire [1]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Basically, Bathing/Washing, Bigotry & Prejudice, Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Blood and Injury, Competent Jaskier | Dandelion, Eating, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Fever, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Food, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hair Washing, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, M/M, Medical Procedures, Minor Original Character(s), Mutual Pining, Pining, Pining Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining Jaskier | Dandelion, Potions, Pre-Slash, Protective Jaskier | Dandelion, Serious Injuries, Sharing a Bed, Soft Jaskier | Dandelion, Touch-Starved Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, minor Jaskier/OFC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:21:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 22,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22677841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: Jaskier is traveling with Geralt when a hunt goes badly wrong and Geralt ends up injured.  Geralt soon realizes that the bard can take care of Geralt better than he'd realized, in his own way.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Mixing Memory and Desire [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1685257
Comments: 380
Kudos: 2286
Collections: Best Geralt, Fae's Favourite Witcher Works, Fan Fiction Addiction





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I've seen the Netflix show, played a LITTLE of the Witcher 3, and read about two short stories (in translation) so I'm not an expert in this canon by any means, but I couldn't resist. I added in references to in-game potions (from my vague memories/wiki usage) and sort of tried to merge all three versions together, but this is definitely show canon. Set between Episode 4 and Episode 5, at some imaginary point when Jaskier and Geralt are traveling together again (the show kind of implies that they haven't seen each other since the royal betrothal in Cintra at the beginning of episode 5, but work with me, here - maybe Jaskier left Cintra after Geralt and caught up with him at some point).

Generally speaking, Geralt tried to prepare seriously for hunts he thought might take more than a few days with no time to re-supply or regroup in between. This time, he’d prepared for one basilisk—after all, usually they were fairly solitary, and reports from the town had made it sound as if there was no more than one. But no, instead he’d encountered an entire nest. Only one had been seen in the town, clearly, because they were a breeding pair. He had just enough time to wonder how long his stocks of Golden Oriole would last against this many, and to hope that Jaskier would get tired of waiting for him and take Roach back to the room they’d taken in the town on Jaskier’s insistence, and then he was in the fight, and he didn’t have a lot of time to spare for thinking about anything else.

Geralt made a habit of being cautious, so he would have put the odds of his surviving the fight at about 50-50. After the acid burn down his shoulders and over his back, those dropped. He was aware of a dark, dizzy satisfaction when he stabbed the last of the lizards through the eye, ripped his silver sword out through the mouth, and gutted it, just to be sure. He wasn’t aware of climbing back out of the cave, except for the pain in his hand as it scraped down over a loose rock, and the dull surprise he felt looking at his badly abraded palm. He knew he must have done so, but the next thing he was aware of was his breath heaving out of aching lungs, his forearm braced on a tree, the openness of the air, bracing and clear and free of the scent of death and dank stone and reptile, and looking up to see Jaskier across a clearing by their fire, fingers picking out some idle tune on his lute, startled blue eyes widening hugely at the sight of him, hand stilling on the strings of his instrument. Geralt knew he had to look a sight—blood-streaked, a good deal of it his, his armor badly damaged and hanging off him, stained with basilisk guts, wet to the knees from the water in that cave, with the unnatural pallor and black-veined eyes of the potions he’d taken. “Fuck,” he groaned, barely conscious of what he was saying, and then he was vaguely aware of falling to his knees, mostly because of the jolting thud of impact that made everything in his body hurt, from the gash in his side to the wound across his back to the bite in his thigh.

The bard was kicking dirt on the fire, then somehow across the clearing and kneeling in front of him a moment later. “Oh, Melitele’s shapely bosom,” he said, and Geralt felt his mouth quirk in some dizzy semblance of a smile, because that was Jaskier for you, always funny somehow. So good with words, and Geralt was too far gone to be hiding his smiles. He could hear the pounding beat of Jaskier’s heart, smell the start of cold, nervous sweat, hear the bard’s quick, anxious breathing. The other man’s hands came up to frame his face, pushing blood-matted hair back off of Geralt’s brow. “Geralt? Geralt, are you—are you all ri—no, stupid question, are you with me? How badly are you hurt?”

Geralt dragged a deep breath in through his nose, refused to groan. He lifted both hands, laid them over Jaskier’s arms on his shoulders, tried not to hold on too heavily, even though he needed the support. “Jaskier,” he managed to grind out.

Jaskier nodded. He looked pale, pale to his lips, when Geralt finally managed to focus on him. “Yes, what do you need?” the bard said, though, instantly.

Geralt took another deep, aching breath, and thought perhaps he had not given Jaskier, flighty and distracting and bright and vain, enough credit for his steadiness. “Pack,” he managed to get out. _White Honey, then Swallow and White Raffard’s Decoction together at once_. How did he say that to Jaskier? He didn’t label the damn things, because who else would use them? “Honey,” he finally managed. “Clear bottle.”

Jaskier was already rummaging through his pack, one hand holding Geralt at his neck. The witcher took a wavering breath, feeling cold, let his eyes slide closed, his head drop forward into that surprisingly strong warm hold, against Jaskier’s palm, trying to take deep breaths the way he’d been trained, breathing through the pain, for a moment, until he realized what he was doing, tried to rebalance, leaned into his forearm, against the tree, trying not to put too much weight on Jaskier. He could feel his own blood hot against his side, soaking into his armor, down over his hip and into his leathers. That was—bad. He breathed steadily. His eyes slipped closed despite himself.

“Geralt. Geralt! Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice, frantic and very loud, just in his ear. His hand felt warm against Geralt’s face, rubbed at his neck before clasping there again. Geralt realized Jaskier had his other hand under his chin, forcing his head up with his fingers just under his chin. He forced his eyes open again, sucked in a breath as the pain suddenly hit him again with a vengeance.

“Jaskier?” he said, and it came out of him questioning, thick. Hadn’t Jaskier gone back to town? No, he’d just hoped for that, that wasn’t what had happened—he was right there. Holding up a clear glass bottle in front of him, filled with a pale yellow viscous substance. _White Honey_. Oh, thank fuck.

“Is this right?” Jaskier asked. He sounded rather uncertain. “You have quite a lot of these here, Geralt, and I very much don’t want to give you the wrong one, so if you could contribute it would be appreciated—”

“Yes,” Geralt rasped out. He had one hand on Jaskier’s arm still, he realized, the other against the tree. He braced himself, reached out one hand.

“Ah-ah,” Jaskier said, and uncorked the bottle with his teeth. He brushed Geralt’s hair back behind his neck and his shoulder, made a tsking little sound with his tongue, and braced his hand at his neck and the side of his head again. “Open up,” he said, more gently, what Geralt thought with dizzy confusion was almost tender, and it was too urgent to argue. Geralt opened his mouth, let Jaskier gently tip the potion into it, between his lips, felt it coat his throat with its sweetness and soft, cloying rush as the potions in his system already abruptly ceased their effects. The crash was immediate and painful, and he pitched forward, panting, into Jaskier.

 _Don’t,_ said a voice in the back of his head, _don’t lean on him, don’t, don’t you dare, you’ll crush him_ , but it was too much, he couldn’t help it, as the Cat and Thunderbolt and Full Moon and Golden Oriole in his system all stopped acting at once, leaving him weak and dizzy and nauseated almost to the point of vomiting as his vision blurred and then snapped back into focus, and he found himself bracing himself against Jaskier’s torso with one fist, gripping his shoulder with his other hand, panting dizzily, feverishly, for breath. Jaskier, to his credit, didn’t even wobble, steady as a good stone wall, even as his hands flew up to Geralt’s shoulders, tentatively and gingerly holding him, and he babbled something, his voice going higher than normal with panic. “Are you all right?” Geralt made out, in Jaskier’s voice, panting and breathless, after a good few moments. “You need something else? Geralt, please talk to me.”

He had to think through the sudden burn of the traces of venom the Golden Oriole hadn’t already neutralized, but without the White Honey he would have certainly tipped past his threshold of toxicity when he took the next potions he planned on. Geralt panted into Jaskier’s shoulder, and it was a moment before he could raise his head. “Swallow,” he managed to finally say aloud, after a few attempts that resulted only on saying it in his head and a grunt leaving his lips. “It’s red-gold. Orange? Like fire. Should be near—near the top. And. And.” It was so difficult to talk. It was exhausting. He felt his head listing forward again.

“And?” Jaskier said. “And? Geralt, stay with me.” His hand tightened on his shoulder, shook him lightly, and then the other came up, forced his chin up again until he was meeting Jaskier’s eyes. He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them. Jaskier’s face swam before his eyes, but he was right there. Geralt panted. He could feel himself cold and wet with sweat.

“It’s golden-brown,” he managed. “Like hematite. Shines in low light.” _White Raffard’s Decoction._ He managed a faint laugh. “Looks disgusting. C-consistency like tar.” He reached for the wound in his side, felt his own blood sticky against his fingers.

Jaskier coaxed him in forward, until he was resting fully against his chest and shoulder. Geralt fought him, wavering on his knees, but he didn’t have much strength left, and eventually Jaskier was holding him there against his shoulder as Geralt gasped and shuddered for breath, one of the bard’s hands clasped firmly, almost proprietarily, at the back of his head, fingers curled into his hair. Geralt felt his eyes slip closed, was barely aware of it. His concentration was firmly inward, focused on his breathing, the beat of his own heart.

After a few moments, Jaskier’s hand fell to his neck. “Geralt,” he said. “Geralt, open your eyes.” He hauled him up, somehow Geralt didn’t know, until Geralt blinked, opened his eyes, started cooperating. Jaskier held up a flask of a potion that was, miraculously, White Raffard’s Decoction. Geralt spared a moment to be fervently grateful that he’d spent most of the last few weeks replenishing his supply of potions.

“That’s it,” he rasped out.

Jaskier held his head for him again, held the potion to his lips, as it filled his mouth slowly, oily and sludgy as it was. Geralt was accustomed to the texture, and the less than salubrious taste, and so gulped it down readily. He nearly blacked out, afterward, and found himself lying against Jaskier’s shoulder, nearly fully in the bard’s lap, with Jaskier swearing, very creatively, Geralt thought with a distant, amused approval, and, when he blinked his eyes open again, a bottle of Swallow in his hand.

“That’s it,” Geralt confirmed in a tight croak that felt like it cost him to get out of his throat. “Good boy.”

“It looks like it’s on fire,” Jaskier said, and he swallowed, hard, “it’s steaming all over my hand. Are you sure you’re going to drink this? Geralt?”

“Need it,” Geralt managed, and then had just enough strength to hold his mouth open, letting Jaskier take over, pour the hot shifting brightness of Swallow down his throat, all golden bubbling liquid fire. He swallowed, felt it warm him from the inside out, heat rush through his body from the inside out, until he was hot all over.

“One more,” he finally managed. “Golden Oriole. Last of it. Little bottle. Hardly any left.”

“I take it that’s gold in color,” Jaskier said, already rummaging in his pack again, “or is the name merely figurative? Meant to throw us mere mortals off?”

Geralt had just enough strength to nod and grunt, “It’s gold,” before he closed his eyes again.

Jaskier shook him awake, once more, to show him the little vial of Golden Oriole that was all Geralt had left after that fight, and he nodded, impressed that Jaskier had gotten them all right on the first try. Then again, the bard had studied, hadn’t he? He was intelligent, clever, for all his inexplicable desire to keep company with Geralt. He let Jaskier give him that one, too, feeling the golden oily texture spread out over his tongue and slide down his throat. He closed his eyes. The burning of venom in his tissues had lessened. The relief of pain was almost enough to send him sliding into dark unconsciousness in all truth.

Jaskier shook him again. “Geralt,” he said. “Geralt, I—I would carry you if I could, trust me, but I need you on your feet, my friend. It’s a simple matter of physics. I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, but please, for me, you can do it, can’t you?”

“Mmmph,” Geralt managed, into his shoulder, but he got his legs under him, found the ground with his boots and his knees. It was hard, as hard as anything he’d been through, anything he’d been put through in training, but he managed to push with his legs, and with Jaskier’s help, he managed to stagger to his feet, somehow. He was left panting into the bard’s shoulder and dripping with sweat, hardly able to breathe through the burn in his lungs. Jaskier’s arms were both under him, around his waist and chest, and he was visibly winded, but he was holding him up. Geralt was barely aware by that point, let Jaskier brace him against his shoulders and lead him in whatever direction he wanted. He was vaguely aware of seeing Roach through the darkness, of finally smelling her stronger than the smell of basilisk and his own blood, and Jaskier a distant second, of reaching out and grasping her bridle while he gasped, panted for breath, braced himself with that arm, grateful for that support.

She bent her knees and lowered herself to the ground, taking him with her, and he leaned forward, pressed a kiss behind her ears, taking in her familiar, comforting smell gratefully.

“Oh, good _girl_ ,” Jaskier said from behind him, sounding fervently, desperately pleased. If he’d been more able to force himself to speak, Geralt would have pointed out that the horse of a witcher, forever on his own, had best be able to help him mount, should things go poorly. But it was too many words at once to even contemplate. “Okay, Geralt, up you get.”

Geralt grunted an acknowledgement, slung one arm over Roach’s neck, fisting her mane, not worrying about how desperately pathetic he must look, struggling at this, and swung his bad leg up, over Roach’s saddle. He let Jaskier position him, holding him there as Roach got back up to her feet, slowly, swaying and jolting him. He let himself slump forward, wrapped her reins in both his hands, let his sweaty face rest in between her ears, and, with an effort of willpower, shoved his booted feet into the stirrups.

“Geralt.” Jaskier’s voice, again. His hand was on Geralt’s thigh. It was rubbing, gently, along the thigh that, luckily, hadn’t had a bite taken out of it. He was fairly certain he was whole again on that side, thanks to White Raffard’s Decoction, but he hadn’t exactly taken a good look. Anyway, Jaskier’s hand there, on his mostly uninjured thigh, felt strangely good. Warm. Comforting. And thus, unexpected. He lifted his head, looked at him, to see Jaskier standing with his hand in Roach’s bridle, around the end of the reins, holding her at her head. “Can you stay in that saddle?” Jaskier asked. “Should I tie you on? Ride behind you? Be honest with me, you stubborn witcher, all right?” A soft little smile, wry and tight with fear, barely visible in the dim light. “It will do us no good at all if you fall and kill yourself.”

Geralt doubted a fall would kill him, but it wouldn’t be a joke, either. He took a deep breath, forced it out through his mouth, and used his elbows and arms to force himself to straighten. “I can keep my seat,” he finally gritted out between his teeth.

“You—well, all right,” Jaskier said, after a moment. “You just hang on, then.” He murmured something to Roach, reached up and patted Geralt’s hand through his leather gauntlet, squeezing it gently but with surprising strength, and turned, tugging the mare with him.

It was nearing full dark, Geralt wanted to say. Jaskier’s eyes were no good in the dark. What if he fell? Turned his ankle? Broke it? But it was a lot of words, and Geralt found himself fading out again, had to wrench himself back. He knotted his hands in Roach’s mane, keeping firm hold of the reins, and closed his eyes.

Geralt had experienced a good many painful, nightmarish rides while bleeding out in his long lifetime, and thanks to the potions, he wasn’t even really doing that anymore. But there was nothing pleasant about that ride, nothing at all. He kept slipping in and out of awareness, could feel himself burning hot, knew he was turning fevered, but there was little he could do about it. After a while, he leaned forward, let himself rest his head on his crossed arms, fisted in Roach’s mane, and just panted into them, his back slumped, unable to fully hold himself up any longer, heard himself moan every so often, when there was a rougher than normal jolt, or when the pain snaked through him too much to bear, his skin feeling like it was growing tight over his bones. He barely noticed when it started to rain, but by the time it was raining hard enough to be slicking down his neck into his leathers, he was uncomfortably aware of it. The light mist settling over his cheeks and in his hair wasn’t bad, cool against his hot skin, his hot cheeks and forehead, his hotter neck. He could take or leave the way it left his hair damp, though. He spared a thought for Jaskier—poor Jask, in his fine doublets and lovely clothes—but then it slipped away again, because all he could focus on was keeping himself in the saddle, keeping himself steady with his hands in Roach’s mane.

He lost time, he knew that much. The walk back must have taken hours, but he didn’t think he was aware for even half of that. He managed to stay in the saddle, but that was about all he could say for his state of awareness. He was aware of the few times Jaskier swore, rather loudly, and Roach’s whuffs and snuffling noises from time to time. Of his hair growing wet and sticking unpleasantly to the back of his neck. Of losing one of the stirrups and the pain that shot up his sore leg as he shifted and struggled to get it back. Of focusing on his breathing, sliding half into meditation, just to stay aware enough to keep himself ahorse. Of, sometimes, Jaskier’s hand on his leg, or against his belt, or his rear, clearly steadying him, and Jaskier’s voice in a light, rapid, soothing flow of words, pattering like the raindrops, that he couldn’t follow, talking and talking, on and on, as if his words alone could keep Geralt on Roach’s back. He wished he could follow it, though; Jaskier’s words were always so fine, like the water of a clear mountain stream or a good wine, and his tone was gentle, and Geralt found himself greedy for more of that tone from him, gentle like a salve.

Jaskier held his arm over the rough patches of ground, as Roach picked her way carefully through, Jaskier’s lovely tenor humming a bit, snatches of song that sounded almost nervous, as if he were trying to keep his own spirits up as much as singing to Geralt. Jaskier slid one arm around his back as if to keep him up a few times when he wavered, though Geralt knew he had to be standing on his toes to do it. At one point, he heard him tsking, exclaiming, and felt Roach come to a gentle stop, felt gentler hands draw him forward over her neck, then Jaskier fumbling with the buckles of his sword belt, over his back. His breath was hot against Geralt’s temple. Geralt huffed out a noise of complaint, but Jaskier just scolded him in that soft tone, and then the weight of his sword belt was off his shoulders. Jaskier gave a little intake of breath at the probably half-healed acid burn over Geralt’s shoulders, and he could smell the concern, the fear, roll off him, but he didn’t speak. He did, surreally, press a kiss to Geralt’s temple, into his hair, and then drew away. The touch of his lips, soft as a flower’s petals, burned through him, hot against Geralt’s already fevered skin. He wondered at first if he’d dreamed it, but then he felt Jaskier’s hand sweep through his hair, brush it off his back to fall forward over one shoulder, dancing lightly as a breeze, soft and cool, over the nape of his neck. He felt Jaskier fiddling at the bedroll behind Geralt and realized that he’d buckled his sword belt to his other pack even before Jaskier found his hand, tugged it from Roach’s reins, and brought it carefully back to touch the sword in its new resting place. “See?” he said. “It’s right there. Just wanted to spare your shoulders a bit. All right?”

Geralt nodded, let Jaskier’s hand on his back steady him as he started walking Roach forward again, as he knotted his own gloved hand in the reins again. He lost more time after that, but Jaskier had been right—the lack of the weight over his shoulders was much easier on his back and made it much easier to stay upright in the saddle.

He was aware of when the uneven footing of the forest floor turned to packed earth, aware again when it turned to cobbles, and was vaguely, floatingly, impressed, at Jaskier’s ability to find his way back to the road in what was now full dark, lit only by a large and rather bright moon. Jaskier hailed the gate guards of—was it the town they had left however long it had been ago?—but by that time Geralt felt very, very feverish and ill, and was engaged in a battle not to lean over Roach’s side and vomit into the road. Vesemir had drilled it into him time and time again that if one vomited up potions, they didn’t do one a lot of good, but it was difficult, when you’d had as many as he’d had in—one day? Two days? Three? But he knew well the power of Jaskier’s laughing charm, even when the bard must have been a soaking, bedraggled mess, so he wasn’t surprised when he felt Roach start moving again. They took several turns, once into the town, and Geralt’s foggy mind just about put together that it was the route back to the inn they’d taken, so it must have been the town they’d just left, which was good, because he wanted paid for this job, damn it. His head was nodding, and next he was aware, he smelled the unmistakable odor of a stable. Comforting, familiar, straw and hay, oats and horse. He forced himself to lift his head, open his eyes, to find Jaskier backing Roach into a stall, muttering to himself all the while. He was just as wet and bedraggled as Geralt had imagined. And then his hand was on Geralt’s better leg again.

“Just swing your leg over,” he was saying. “Slide down against the side of the stall here—I know, you’re a big fellow, but you can manage it. I’ll catch you. I’m stronger than I look, I promise.”

He was certainly that, Geralt thought with distant amusement, and then his concentration was entirely taken up by the effort of lifting his injured leg, the way it pulled on muscles all through that leg, all through his damaged torso, his back and over his shoulders. He got it up and swung it over with an effort, careful to balance himself on Roach’s saddle, then her body and the side of the stall as he dismounted in a less than controlled fall, but Jaskier did, after all, catch him up against his chest. Geralt’s arm knocked the lute over Jaskier’s back with a soft chime of sound, and Jaskier chuckled a little. “I agree,” he said. “It would make quite a song, eh? Here we are, see? What did I tell you?” His fingers were unbelievably tender, sliding along over Geralt’s cheek, up over the bone, his temple, gently pushing back a clinging lock of wet hair, and then he pulled Geralt to him, his arm up, over his shoulder. “Just lean on me,” he said, and Geralt braced himself on Jaskier and Roach.

“Thank you, Roachie,” he told her in a soft voice, letting his head butt against her neck. “Good girl.” She whuffed and nuzzled at his hair. He petted her neck, was vaguely aware of Jaskier calling the stableboy—no, stable girl—over.

The bard pressed a silver coin into her hand and told her to take the finest care of Roach, the care that she would have paid to the best horse in all the land, because that was what Roach was, then went on for some time about Geralt’s supposed heroism and bravery, which was a crock of bullshit, but Geralt was too dizzy and nauseated and words were too hard at the current moment for him to put in a word against it, and at least it left the girl’s eyes wide and her promises to take care of Roach fervent, even though her glances at Jaskier were shy and much more admiring than her fearful ones at Geralt. Jaskier seemed oblivious, though Geralt knew he couldn’t be. The damnable flirt had never once in his life been oblivious to an admiring glance. Normally Geralt would have looked to Roach himself, but as that wasn’t an option, he appreciated Jaskier’s looking out for her.

But then they had to leave Roach in the hands of the stable girl, and Geralt was left with just Jaskier to lean on. The bard’s arm was strong about his waist, his hand at his wrist equally firm, but it was definitely going to be an ordeal. Geralt could see that coming. He took a deep breath and willed himself to put one foot in front of the other.

He was fading, aware enough to keep himself standing mostly under his own power and follow where Jaskier led him, but not by much, by the time he heard Jaskier exchanging words with the innkeeper. There was a bit of a commotion in the common room around them, and Geralt raised his head, dimly scanning the room for threats, but he saw nothing that looked especially threatening, just a lot of townsfolk understandably taken aback at the sight they no doubt presented, so he let his head sag forward again.

Whatever Jaskier had said to the innkeeper must have worked, because then he was tugging Geralt along again. When they came to the stairs, Jaskier cursed softly, heartfelt, right against his ear, and Geralt pried his eyes open enough to give a wary eye to the steep, narrow flight of stairs he remembered from the night before.

“Fuck,” he said.

“Yes, you said it,” Jaskier said, with a shaky laugh. “You’re the experienced witcher, here—how would you like to handle it? What do you think would be best? We can’t walk side by side up that.”

If no one had been about, Geralt would have dumped his dignity down the nearest fucking well and crawled up on his damned elbows and knees, but he wasn’t about to do that in front of a common room full of people, especially since, given the aching wound in his thigh, he wasn’t certain he could get himself back up to his feet again once he’d done it. It wasn’t the sort of thing that made the brotherhood of witchers look good. He sighed.

“Give me a boost,” he said, and wiped his forehead with one hand before he started up the stairs, with Jaskier’s hand on his arse to push him up as requested.

He wobbled at the top, nearly passed out, could feel pressure at his temples, dark stars dancing dizzily across his vision, his world going gray. He was suddenly aware of Jaskier’s hand at his back, of the bard scrambling around under his arm despite the tight fit against the wall, of the way he pulled him bodily up the last two stairs, and pushed him, and they ended up fetching up against the opposite wall in the corridor. Geralt blinked down at him, and saw Jaskier’s hesitant smile, the damp hair clinging in tendrils to his forehead, slicked down into his eyes. Jaskier felt very—present under him, and he could feel every detail of the bard’s slimmer form, the wiry muscle his brocade doublets, apparently, had been hiding.

“Oh, don’t pass out on me now, Geralt,” Jaskier murmured, and he reached up, gently touched Geralt’s cheek, brushed his hair back again, took hold, again, of his neck.

Gentle as a salve, Geralt thought, again, and took a breath. He let Jaskier take his wrist again, slip his arm around his waist, and leaned heavy on him, heavier than he’d ever wanted to, as he led him down the hall. He was only vaguely aware of a door opening. Jaskier’s hands came up, unfastened his armor, practically ripping it off him, gauntlets and all, and Geralt slid sideways and knew nothing more for a while.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to work in Gwent, because it is the number one thing that sticks in my mind about the game - and despite the games being in the future from this story, the in game text says Gwent has been played/popular for over a hundred years, so I figure this is just an earlier version of it.
> 
> Also, please note that this is before Geralt met Yennefer, so his standards of tenderness/romantic relationships are . . . well, pre-Yennefer, for whatever that's worth!

Geralt came awake to darkness, once again, and was first aware of the fact that his boots were off. Second, that his trousers were unfastened, and third that he was lying there in nothing more than his trousers and his shirt, which was mostly open, Witcher medallion a cool weight against the skin of his chest. Only then came awareness that he was lying in a bed, and he felt—hot. Hot and ill, like the room was spinning around him. Fever, his mind supplied dazedly.

He could hear voices coming from outside the room where he lay. One of them, certainly, was Jaskier’s. It had been an unmitigated relief to pass out, and Geralt wasn’t any too sure he wanted to be awake again, but that fact nagged at him, brought his drifting consciousness around, dragged his mind back up to the surface. Jaskier sounded angry, not in the way anyone who didn’t know him would notice—but angry. That couldn’t be good. Maybe someone was just trying to stiff him on the bill, or refusing to pay him—for a performance? How long had they been here, again? They were in an inn, surely, but which?—but . . . .

“We paid good money, my very good sir,” Jaskier said, and the very winning sweetness in his voice was certainly a warning sign, “and surely, our coin is as good as anyone else’s—”

“I can’t have _him_ here,” the innkeeper’s voice, growling. Geralt sighed, blinked his eyes open, and stared resignedly at what was, no doubt, the ceiling of their room at said inn. His head throbbed, and he felt so hot. His skin felt tight and painful, even the bed linens pressing on it painfully. _Filthy mutant_ , his mind supplied. _Inhuman. Monster._ He tested his aching muscles, wondering if he would have to get out of this bed. “He’s a—”

“A monster hunter?” Jaskier asked. “Who hunted your town’s latest monster, I might add, at great cost to himself? And I think you’ll find it’s easy enough. You leave the door shut, comply with my requests, and leave us in blissful peace and blessed solitude until my friend is healed and we collect payment and go on our merry way.”

“You’re not one of ‘em, are you?” the innkeeper grunted suspiciously.

“Me? A witcher?” Jaskier’s laugh was surprised and genuine. “Good goddess, no. I’m Jaskier, the bard? Haven’t you heard of me? No? This _is_ a backwater little town, isn’t it?”

More grunts from the innkeeper. Geralt sighed. _Jaskier_ , he thought. _Insults aren’t the way to convince the man we mean no harm_. 

“Famous, are you?” the man finally said, more loudly.

“Fabled the Continent over,” Jaskier agreed. “I have performed for the Royal Court of Cintra—for the noble houses of Redania—for—”

“All right, all right,” the innkeeper said. “You know some bawdy songs, do you? Some good drinking songs?”

“My bread and butter, my good man,” Jaskier said rapidly, and yes, well, Geralt could attest to that. Jaskier seemed to have an endless supply of bawdy songs, somehow—either he made them up on the spur of the moment or he knew every one ever sung, or both.

“Hmm,” the innkeeper said. “You perform in my common room, every night for a week?”

“I’d love to,” Jaskier said. “It would be my most acute pleasure. Is it a deal?”

“The Witcher won’t be sittin’ there, glowering with those unnatural eyes of his?” the innkeeper asked. “He’ll stay in his room and not remind folk he’s staying in my inn? Unnatural creature that he is.”

“I hardly think he’d want to,” Jaskier said, and Geralt shut his eyes on a smile. _Insulting, Jaskier_ , he thought. But he was smiling, nonetheless. “I assure you, he will be as quiet as a very large mouse, and do nothing but recover. You’ll find him the meekest lamb.”

Right. Definitely. Meek as a lamb, that was him in a phrase. Geralt wondered if Jaskier would have dared to promise that, let alone phrase it in such a way, if he knew Geralt was listening. But he was right about one thing. If this was the innkeeper’s attitude, he certainly wouldn’t be out there making a spectacle of himself by appearing in the inn’s common room, not in this town.

He realized that without Jaskier out there, he’d be doing right now what he’d done a hundred times if he had once—dragged his aching, fevered body off the bed and down the stairs to Roach, apologizing to her as he brought her out again into the night, collected his payment from the mayor despite feeling like nothing more than falling flat on his face and sleeping for a week, and left town to find some likely campsite and try to meditate until he recovered.

He owed the bard. That much was clear. Even his skin still hurt. He would not have relished movement.

Jaskier was still speaking with the innkeeper. “And there’s more where that came from,” he was promising. “You will find me most exceedingly generous if you allow us to stay, ten times the worth of your other patrons. Yes?”

 _Don’t promise him that,_ Geralt thought, his thoughts unfocused, unmoored on a hot, roiling, fevered sea. _I don’t have the damn coin._

“And you won’t cause no trouble?” the innkeeper was saying. Jaskier was off again, flowery promises and poetic persuasion out in force. Geralt closed his eyes and wondered if Jaskier expected to actually live up to any of that. He let himself drift, trying to ignore the pounding in his head, like the beat of a drum before a battle, like rocks falling down a mountainside, like water dripping in a cave.

He came back awake with a start when the door opened. He was sitting, groping for his swords, blinking away the light and gasping for breath, before he had space for a thought, reacting on pure instinct.

He didn’t find his swords, and, panting, realized quickly that the figure in the door, holding a candle in one hand and a bundle of some sort in the other, was Jaskier, dressed in a still-damp doublet and breeches soaked up to the knees. Geralt blinked at him.

“Why don’t you change?” he asked, blankly.

Jaskier laughed and closed the door behind him, crossing the room to light the candles inside it with the one in his hand before he let it rest on a low table near the bed, with the bundle he’d been carrying beside it. “Why don’t you change, he asks me,” he said, sounding fond. He did, though, take off his doublet, leaving him in his shirt, and stepped out of his damp boots, leaving them near the low embers of the fire to dry, rolling up the legs of his breeches, before he crossed the room and took a seat near Geralt on the bed, so that the warm roundness of his pert arse pressed into Geralt’s hip. Geralt swallowed, moistened his lips, his throat. “I’m sorry,” he said, reaching up and pushing damp hair back off from Geralt’s brow. “I didn’t intend to abandon you only half looked after, but an impertinent individual rudely accosted me in the corridor, and some placation was necessary. Oof, you’re very hot.” His knuckles and the backs of his fingers rubbed gently at Geralt’s cheek, his jaw. “How worried should I be about that fever in a witcher?”

It was hard to think, let alone string thoughts together into words. Geralt felt very hot, and his head pounded. He took a breath, and, finally, managed, “Witchers run hot. Healing runs hotter. Don’t worry. I’ll recover.”

“Ah, a speech!” Jaskier said, with a little smile. “No need to put yourself to such efforts of discourse on my behalf.” He was reaching toward Geralt’s shirt fastenings. His instinct was to push him away, shove that reaching arm back, but he forced himself to remain still, to let Jaskier unfasten the rest of the clasps and lacings, then slip his hand in between the panels against his chest. Geralt realized there was a quick, rudimentary bandage around his side, a shirt packed tight against the gash and then bound to him with more strips of cloth. “I did my best,” Jaskier said, with a little shrug, when he noticed Geralt’s gaze and the exploratory brush of his fingers against it. “Pressure, for bleeding, that’s what they say, isn’t it? I didn’t want to do anything more until we’d got you cleaned up.”

“Going to,” Geralt felt dizzy and his head thick and heavy, and still very hot. His tongue was slow in his mouth. “Going to—to give me another bath, Jaskier?”

“That was the general idea,” Jaskier said with a sniff. “You’re all over . . . mud, and basilisk . . . parts? And your own blood, and I don’t think it’s, ah, any better for a witcher’s wounds to be dirty than it is for any of the rest of us. It surely can’t hurt, can it?”

Geralt had to admit that was true. It most likely wouldn’t hurt. In fact, it would probably be a good thing. But bathing himself felt like truly a great deal of effort at the moment.

“I’ll do all the work,” Jaskier said, before he could say a word, and flicked his hands over Geralt’s body, expressively. “You won’t have to do a thing but lie there—or, well, sit there in a tub—and look lovely. And impressive, and muscular. And . . . feverish. You can do that, can’t you?”

Geralt grunted, mostly because he was sure he would, because Jaskier wanted it. It seemed best to just give in now. And it wasn’t as if he couldn’t use it. He let Jaskier turn him until his legs dangled off the side of the bed, wincing at the strain of moving the injured one, bracing his bare feet on the ground, as Jaskier drew his shirt off over Geralt’s head—despite his inability to lift the arm on the side with the worst of the acid burn all the way; Jaskier just pulled it up over his one arm, over his head, and neatly up and over the other, like he’d done such things for years. Geralt knew he was much practiced in divesting others of their clothing, but surely not those impaired to such an extent as Geralt was now. And yet, Jaskier didn’t even seem to blink, and kept up a cheerful chatter on about the room, judging it on its size, its merits, the hardwood used, the old (he said) rug on the floor, whether the chimney had been freshly cleared. Once he was done, he left one hand resting on Geralt’s shoulder, tsking to himself as he leaned back to look at the wound on his back, bent over and inspected the one on his leg.

“You do look better,” he told Geralt, after a moment. “Considering those wounds could well have killed you. Those potions do marvelous work, don’t they?”

“On a witcher,” Geralt grunted, after a moment, when he had parsed the words fully through the foggy haze of his feverish mind.

“Ah, so they would kill someone like, say, little old me?” Jaskier asked. “That’s the rumor, anyhow.”

“Yes,” Geralt said, simply.

“Don’t worry, they didn’t tempt me,” Jaskier said airily. “I won’t be trying them out. Ah!” The door opened, and a pair of girls came through, both with arms like tree trunks, which was clearly helpful for carrying a large tub full of steaming water. Jaskier leapt to his feet and was almost instantly across the room, at their sides. “Thank you so much, ladies,” he said. “I bow before your strength and loveliness, your dazzling capability—it would take five, no, ten of me to lift that tub, and your visages light this room better than any fire or candle ever could.”

Geralt propped his elbow on his better knee and dropped his face into his hand. The girls were giggling and blushing. He could feel them looking at him and became suddenly aware of his state of undress. His damn feet were even bare. Jaskier kissed both their hands, one girl’s cheek, then the other, and gave them what looked like an absolutely extravagant tip. One knelt to build up the fire, and then Geralt could hear them laughing gaily all the way down the hall when Jaskier finally shooed them out.

Geralt rubbed at his forehead, the side of his face, pinched at the bridge of his nose.

“Really, your glowering could put off a succubus,” Jaskier said, with a laugh just as bright as the girls’ had been, as he crossed the room back to his side. Geralt found himself distracted by watching the soft, near soundless padding of Jaskier’s bare feet across the rug Jaskier didn’t approve of and the plain boards. “But those lovelies certainly had fine taste—surely you noticed them appreciating all this.” He waved his hands, holding them out wide in front of Geralt’s chest. “All these . . . tracts of land,” he added admiringly.

Geralt gave him a look.

“You can glare at me as much as you like,” Jaskier said. “That won’t make your chest any less finely made. Now.” He went to one knee beside the bed, braced his arm beside Geralt on the mattress, surprising him. “Let’s get you up.”

Geralt blinked at him in surprise, and Jaskier laughed, shook his head at him.

“Come now,” he said. “Haven’t I carried you this far? Don’t you trust me to take your considerable, no denying, considerable weight as far as the bath?” The bath was already turning the room steamy and warm. Jaskier made an expansive motion with one arm, a kind of courtly bow.

Geralt looked at Jaskier, at his slighter form, kneeling there on the floor in his rolled-up trousers and his stained shirt and bare feet, and felt a pang of guilt. “I’ve leaned on you too much already,” he said, before he could bite it back, and then bit the inside of his cheek, cursed himself, shaking his head. He shouldn’t have let that slip, shouldn’t have said that aloud. He should have said something about how Roach had done most of the work.

Jaskier’s hand came down, warmly covered his knee. “You couldn’t, Geralt,” he said. “There’s no such thing as too much. Not between friends.”

When Geralt looked up again, Jaskier was staring at him, seriously, and there was something to the soft, grave set of his mouth, the pure clarity of his eyes in the candlelight. Something real, and open, and full of feeling. Geralt swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. There was a strange, pounding ache in his chest.

Jaskier smiled a little and looked down. “If you will deign to call me that,” he said. “And you know I always say that I’d risk anything for a friend. Friendship, love, art, and wine—that’s what makes the world bright and beautiful. Do they not? Anyway, witcher,” he said the word with his usual relish and half-mocking, Geralt had thought at first, but now it seemed more like teasing, flourish, “come now. Lean on me. It will be all right. It’s only a short distance, and if you overbalance and bear us both to the floor, you’ll do far more damage to yourself than to me.”

“Your loyalty is,” Geralt started, hoarsely, “of—of—greatly appreciated, Jaskier, I—”

“Oh, please,” Jaskier said, “that’s hardly necessary. Was that not clear? I am your humble servant, Sir Witcher—no, that sounds wrong. Lord? Lord Geralt of Rivia—” he said with bright, teasing pageantry, as if announcing him to a room full of nobles, then winked at him, “eager and willing to serve you.”

“You could make anything a cause for laughter, couldn’t you,” Geralt said after a moment, and it scraped in his throat.

Jaskier smiled. “Ah, Geralt,” he said, and his smile turned rueful, nearly sad, wistful. He brushed his fingers against Geralt’s chin, along his jaw, and even through his fever, his touch felt like fire. Geralt jolted, surprised, then hissed at the sudden pain. “Any good bard is also a good jester, and if a jester cannot make a joke about anything, at all, that comes his way, he is a poor one, indeed.”

The way he said it made it perfectly clear that he meant even things that made that light heart ache, even things Jaskier himself felt as a burden. Geralt reached up, took his hand, and squeezed, not knowing why, simply knowing that he wanted to provide a comfort.

Jaskier blinked and looked away. “Right then,” he said. “I will not be taking no for an answer, so, my friend—” He took Geralt’s hand and laid it on his own shoulder.

“You,” Geralt said, “are persistent.”

Jaskier smiled. “A bard must be that, too,” he said, “to get anywhere.”

Geralt pictured Jaskier walking behind him and Roach for hours at a time, chattering away, singing, sharing every little observation that flitted through his mind, going through what had to be an entire performance program of music at a go, throwing himself eagerly into the work of setting up camp though he had to be tired, making jokes every night until Geralt reluctantly began to laugh despite himself.

Persistent, indeed. “Then you are well on your way to becoming the greatest yet,” he said, and was rewarded by Jaskier’s surprised, genuine laughter.

“A compliment!” he said. He threw his hand extravagantly over his heart. “I shall swoon. Even if it was only you calling me a stubborn ass. Which, of course, I am.” He winked at Geralt again, tugged Geralt further toward him, and Geralt sighed, grunted, and let himself brace his hand on Jaskier’s shoulder. Together, they got him up on his feet, even as pain shot through him from the bad leg and he winced, nearly fell, and had to balance himself on Jaskier, gasping for breath, and his other leg. Jaskier held him securely, though, and with his help it was no terrible burden to limp across the floor to the tub.

Once there, though, he braced himself on the edge and looked at the steaming water with both longing and trepidation. The warm steam felt good against his bare arms, the sore tight skin of his face, but the thought of removing his trousers alone was intimidating. Not that he planned to tell Jaskier as much.

As it turned out, Jaskier didn’t wait to be told. He situated himself right up along Geralt’s back, murmured right against his hot ear, “I promise you, your virtue is safe with me,” and then yanked at Geralt’s trousers. He got them quickly down around his thighs, then he went down on his knees and with quick fingers worked the badly damaged leather lightly over the wound in his thigh, so rapidly and carefully it barely hurt. He peeled the leather down to Geralt’s knees on both sides in another moment.

Geralt concentrated on how dizzy and outright awful he felt, rather than allowing himself to think about how Jaskier was on his knees behind him, and that he was naked aside from his smallclothes, which he hurried to push downwards before Jaskier got the idea to do it for him. Jaskier reached up and tugged them down carefully over his wound, too, and then worked his trousers and smalls together down to his ankles. Geralt braced himself on the tub and stepped out of them, surprised by how easy that had actually been. Jaskier swept them out of the way in another moment, then stood, offered Geralt his shoulder, and clasped him around the waist, bracing him as he swung his better leg into the tub, wavering on his injured leg dangerously, then balanced on both. Geralt grunted, swung his injured leg up, with a painful effort, and finally got it into the bath, too. The hot water lapped at it, and he winced. Sitting down was going to be painful. He noticed Jaskier hadn’t added anything to this bath. In fact, at the moment, the bard wasn’t saying anything at all, just pulling at the strips of cloth wrapped around Geralt’s chest, loosening them. He held the folded-up shirt to Geralt’s side, tossing the strips away, and pressed on his shoulder.

“You sit down,” he said, “and I’ll work this free in the water. All right?”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed, steeled himself, and sat. His feet went out from under him rather embarrassingly as he did it, but at least it happened when he was nearly sitting anyway, and he didn’t think Jaskier had noticed. He was right, and it did hurt terribly, burned like fire through his back, his chest, his thigh. He screwed his eyes shut and took deep breaths, and focused on the very, very distracting feeling of both Jaskier’s arms around him, the bard so close he could smell the forest in his hair, the rain, the woodsmoke of the inn’s fire and the smell of stew that hung about it, the scent of sweat and effort and his own blood that clung to Jaskier’s skin, and just a touch of the flowery, woody cologne he usually applied. Geralt took a deep breath and let it soothe him.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, and his voice shook a little, sounded tentative, a bit afraid. His hand slid down, covered Geralt’s shoulder. “You—you’re shaking. Are you—all right?”

“Acid burns hurt, songbird,” Geralt ground out, to cover that moment of weakness when he’d leaned heavily back into Jaskier, breathed in his scent.

“I’ll be—I’ll be gentle,” Jaskier said, shakily, and Geralt smiled, just a little.

“No need,” he said. “I can take it.”

“Great Goddess,” Jaskier said, and his well-trained voice rasped on the oath, broke slightly over the words. He slid his hand down over Geralt’s shoulder, down onto his breast. His hand felt cool against the heat of the fever, and the water. “I’ve no doubt you can, but perhaps I don’t relish the thought of being responsible for hurting you.”

“You wouldn’t be the first,” Geralt said idly. The pain was easing now, as his body grew accustomed to the heat of the water, and he finally felt like he could get a deep breath again. “Don’t trouble yourself.”

“See, that,” Jaskier said. He was working the blood-stained shirt free of Geralt’s side as he spoke. “That right there. That is precisely _why_ I would like to be gentle with you now, you—you precious idiot!”

Geralt blinked through the steam of the bath up at the ceiling, wondering if he’d really heard that, or if it was his fever talking. He’d been known to hallucinate, and then some, thanks to venomous bites and potion overuse, let alone fever. Of course, he knew Jaskier was fond of him, to some degree. He denied the fact that he felt even warmer than before. It was the steam from the bath, that was all.

“Hmm,” he said, finally. “Well, I’m not sure there’s any way to clean that burn without making it scream like a harpy’s death shriek. Even with your clever hands.”

“Well,” Jaskier said, and pushed him up until he was sitting mostly upright in the bath, draping the now free shirt used as bandage over the side, “I know of something that might help. Be right back.”

He trotted to the door before Geralt could have called him back—even if he intended to, which he didn’t, of course—and leaned out into the corridor, then slipped outside into it, after a moment. Geralt could hear him call another maid down, and a few words exchanged. He leaned forward, rested his forehead on the side of the bathtub, and wondered idly where Jaskier had left the soap. He let his mind drift, after that, not quite realizing he was doing it.

A few moments later, Jaskier slipped back into the room, sliding around the corner with one hand on the doorjamb, and Geralt raised his head, sitting back and bracing himself with one arm on the rim of the tub. “Victory,” Jaskier said, still hanging off the door, and he realized Jaskier had a mug of something in his hand, and that he was grinning, as he shut the door behind him again and crossed the room to his side. “Though it was no great battle.” He crouched down beside Geralt, took one hand and curled it open, winced at the abraded palm, and pushed the mug into the other. “Good mulled wine,” he said, “and the girl is bringing the pitcher, so there’s more where that came from. Feel free to get drunk as you will, this time. It’s sweet, a golden, so it should go straight to your head, as much as anything can.”

“How much coin are we spending,” Geralt muttered, but he took a swallow of the warm mulled wine. It was just as good as Jaskier had promised, and exploded across his tongue with a tingle of spice and honeyed sweetness, tasting of sweet fruits and summer, like he might have imagined the nectar inside some fabled flower to taste, all sunshine and spice like a child might imagine the petals of a spotted lily would be to eat, with a warming heat that stayed with him and lingered on the tongue.

“Enough that a game of Gwent is in my future,” Jaskier said. “But have no fear, Geralt. As you know, I am very good.”

He was better than that, Geralt thought. He’d played Jaskier at Gwent, and at Barrel, long nights beside the fire. He was preternaturally good. Because he cheated, of course. But even without that, he was very, very good. “Sharp,” he said into the water, barely concealing it with a cough.

“Well, yes,” Jaskier said. “And honestly, after how they treated you, they deserve it. I promise I’ll only fleece the bastards.”

Geralt had a feeling he should object. But it wasn’t like he could, on principle, object to Gwent or dice as a way to get coin when he was short, having used that technique plenty of times himself. “Just don’t be obvious, Jask,” he sighed, finally.

“Hmph,” Jaskier sniffed. “Please. Obvious. Me. I am a professional. Or, at least, I completed a full course of study of all seven liberal arts at Oxenfurt, which makes me nearly a professional.”

“At cards,” Geralt said. Jaskier was moving around behind him, now, getting something, no doubt. The soap?

“Yes,” Jaskier said. “And dice. What do you think us dissolute scholars spend our time doing? Really, Geralt.”

“Of course, not studying,” Geralt muttered, with a smile. “Not playing the damn lute. Silly me.” He set his teeth, hitched in a breath, as Jaskier poured a bucket of hot water over his back, made himself breathe through the pain, couldn’t quite keep back a moan as it kindled and lit to fresh agony. He downed the rest of the wine in a series of gulps, then braced himself with both arms against the rim of the bath, bent his head, and prepared himself for the pain.

Jaskier had been, apparently, serious when he’d said he’d be gentle. It hurt anyway, was bound to. Burns always hurt the worst, no question. Geralt’s head was lightly buzzing from the wine, though—it had been very sweet, and it had gone to his head, though he wasn’t near drunk—on top of the fuzziness of the fever. He let himself haze out on the pain, was only vaguely aware of one of the maids coming in with a large pitcher of wine, cooperated when Jaskier fussed at him to sit up again, poured him another mug of wine, drank it, and then leaned forward again, let him get back to work. Jaskier was dabbing at his back with a linen cloth, and soap, and a great deal of warm water, he thought, and it hurt like anything, but there was no use dwelling on it. It would hurt for a long while yet.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, after some long while of agony had passed. His voice was very soft.

Geralt grunted. He didn’t bother to lift his head. His back felt raw and tender, throbbing like a wildfire in progress, the air of the room, even full of warm steam as it was, grating across it like stone on raw skin. Jaskier couldn’t be done yet, could he?

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, again. His hand was on his face, lifting him. Geralt blinked up at him. He noted that he looked pale, pale and tired. Geralt wanted to say, _why so tired, Jask? Just go to bed. Take a rest._ His blue eyes were huge and concerned, and there were bruised, tired smudges forming under them. “Geralt. Are you—are you there?”

Geralt nodded, because it seemed like it needed an answer, and if he could hear the question, surely he was there, wasn’t he? Jaskier’s voice sounded shaky, and that wasn’t any good at all.

Jaskier bit his bottom lip, touched the back of his hand to Geralt’s cheek. “You’re so hot,” he said, sounding very worried indeed. “That can’t be good.”

Geralt took a breath, deliberately filled his lungs with air. “I’ll take some more wine,” he said.

Jaskier blinked. “Yes—yes, all right,” he said, and he put one arm around Geralt’s neck, of all things, let him lean his head back, held him up, and held the mug to his lips, too. Geralt had some idea he should protest, brought his hand up to hold the mug himself, but he ran out of energy and just left that hand limply over Jaskier’s as Jaskier held the mug steady, gave him good, heady swallows of it, before he took it away, refilled the mug, and brought it back.

Two mugs in a row, on top of what he’d already had, was enough for even Geralt to feel tipsy. He closed his eyes, grateful for the numbing, pleasant haze, the dullness the wine cast over his senses.

“That’s good, Jask,” he finally thought to say aloud.

Jaskier took in a breath, sudden and sounding surprised, but then his hand pressed gently on Geralt’s better shoulder, and he shifted around him again, returned to his work at Geralt’s back. He wasn’t sure if it was quicker this time because Jaskier had been nearly done, or because now he was drunk and time seemed to have lost its shape, but it felt quicker. He allowed himself to drift and not think overmuch as Jaskier turned him to slump into the side of the bath, pillowed his head on his crossed arms, as Jaskier explored the gash in his side with careful fingers, washed it out with soap and water, holding himself still so he wouldn’t wince or flinch away. He was aware Jaskier was talking away at him, but it was difficult to follow, aside from the welcome tone, the musicality of the way his bright rich tenor traveled up and down, caressed the words, making him smile.

“I could sew this,” Jaskier said, after a moment of silence that had brought Geralt’s attention to him more acutely, “after.”

“Might be best,” Geralt grunted into his arms. It was the type of wound that took well to sutures, after all.

“All right,” Jaskier said, and finished cleaning the gash. He really did have extraordinarily gentle hands, Geralt thought, all lute calluses and strength in their delicate fingertips and long fingers, but so very, very gentle. Careful. He wasn’t sure he’d ever been touched with such careful delicacy. If he had, he was struggling to pull it to mind. Jaskier cleaned his painfully abraded palm, picked out dirt and gravel and tree bark, then moved onto the wound in his thigh, after that, persuaded Geralt to shift in such a way he could pull his leg up, out of the water. Jaskier was straining, gave a grunt of effort, but finally Geralt’s calf was resting on his shoulder. Geralt frowned, squinted at him, conscious that he’d soaked the other man, that his leg had fallen on his shoulder heavy, with a wash of water, but Jaskier didn’t seem to care, didn’t even comment, besides a little laugh, before he bent his head to the wound in Geralt’s thigh. “Hmm,” Jaskier said. “I don’t know if I can sew this one. The edges are awfully ragged.”

“It’ll scar,” Geralt said. “It’s all right.” White Raffard’s Decoction would have brought back the muscle and tendon the basilisk had taken a chunk out of. The rest of it was just soreness from the healing, the uncertain weakness of new muscle, the lingering shallow wound. He would have to do a lot of training after this, to work his muscles back to the state they’d been before, Geralt thought tiredly. “Just wash it out, bandage it later.”

“You are awfully nonchalant,” Jaskier said, a levity in his voice that sounded forced.

“Without you here, I’d be sleeping under a bush with Roach beside me for warmth,” Geralt said after a moment. “I’d sleep there for about four days, hoping it didn’t keep raining, until the fever ran its course, and hope I had water and food enough in my pack, because otherwise I’d have to crawl far enough to find fresh water and then collapse there. It’s happened before.” It would again. “And still, I’d live. If it was worse than that, I’d let Roach find me aid, and hope I lived.”

“I—” he could hear Jaskier’s swallow, heard it click wetly in his throat, heard the suddenly painful, rapid thumping of his heart, smelled the way sweat prickled over his skin. Jaskier gulped, for breath? Geralt wasn’t sure. “Geralt.” Gentle fingers came up, brushed damp, sticky hair back off Geralt’s brow, lingered over the bruise on his forehead, over his temple. “Well, then, my friend, I’m very glad I _am_ here,” Jaskier said, then, with a determined cheerfulness, “Now you see the benefits of a traveling companion, eh? Don’t worry, I’ll look after you.”

Geralt smiled a little. “You already are,” he said.

“Well,” Jaskier said, “yes. But I assure you, I can do even better than this.” He shifted Geralt’s leg off his shoulder with a grunt of effort, let it splash back into the water again.

“Don’t need better,” Geralt sighed. He leaned forward as Jaskier shifted around the tub behind him again. It was strange, how safe he felt having him at his back. His neck wasn’t even prickling, his muscles not even tensed from having Jaskier behind him, even when the bard reached out and gentle, callused fingertips ran over his shoulders and neck, shifted Geralt’s wet hair back over his shoulder.

“What do you need?” Jaskier asked. His voice was soft and sounded very serious.

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. He smiled a little, to himself, too warm and drifting too pleasantly on it, and the wine, to even consider what he was saying. Other than the truth. “You.”

“My goodness,” Jaskier said, with a soft, shaky little laugh. “You lovely flatterer.”

Flatterer? Geralt’s slow, dazed mind, hot and thick with fever, wondered. How could it be flattery if it was true? He’d just enumerated to Jaskier, very clearly, he’d thought, exactly how much the bard was helping him, how he was making this easier on him. Was it not clear how much he appreciated it? His entire chest, his stomach, his heart, was a thudding, warm, liquid mess of aching gratitude, like he’d melted inside somehow. Maybe the fever had gotten too hot and he’d started to melt into softness inside like the inside of a badly baked loaf of bread. Wait, no—that didn’t make sense. But something . . . like that.

“Oh, Geralt,” Jaskier sighed, after a moment. “I’ve got you.” Gentle hands on his shoulders, rubbing at the back of his neck. That felt—good. Despite the tight soreness of his skin and muscles all over his body. He let Jaskier rub his hand against the back of his neck, let himself relax into it. “You know what I’ve always found relaxing?” Jaskier asked. He didn’t sound like he wanted an answer, really, so Geralt didn’t bother, just leaned forward and let Jaskier’s gentle touch skim over his ear, his hairline, the back of his neck. “Having my hair washed by someone else. Someone who really takes their time over it.” He was moving as he spoke, and Geralt sighed, closed his eyes. He was ready, already anticipating it, by the time Jaskier poured a bucket full of warm water down over the top of his head. Geralt sighed with an exhale of pleasure. Jaskier was right—even with the stinging pain of the burn in his back, that already felt good. He braced his forearms against the side of the tub, leaned forward with another sigh, and let Jaskier work his hands into his hair, using his fingers to comb out muck and twigs and gravel, work through the tangles. Jaskier had washed his hair for him before, and though it made Geralt feel very—aware of his vulnerability, a prickling wash down over the back of his neck and into his shoulders, over his scalp, he felt strangely, surprisingly comfortable allowing it.

This, though, was much more involved than Jaskier had made it before. Rather than just rinsing the blood and muck out of his hair, he was running his hands into it, through it, rubbing them against Geralt’s scalp. It felt intimate, in a way that surprised Geralt by not bothering him. He poured something into his hair, too, lathered it up, taking extra time with it. Geralt would normally have complained about how long it was taking, but now he seemed to have no will to do it. Besides, it didn’t feel . . . unpleasant. Quite the contrary. Jaskier’s hands were clever and quick and gentle and felt good in his hair, on the back of his neck. He massaged his scalp, even scratched at it, and Geralt felt himself give a low noise of pleasure, then immediately became aware of it and bit the inside of his cheek.

Jaskier didn’t seem to notice, or at least, didn’t give any sign that he had. He must have rinsed out Geralt’s hair four or five times, and in between he would lather it up again, going back for more, massaging his scalp and his neck to a degree that seemed to Geralt positively decadent, scratching his fingers lightly over the top of his head and behind his ears, rubbing his fingers there.

“Who’s done this for you?” Geralt mumbled after a moment, feeling sleepy, floating on heat and the dizzy heaviness in his head, and very relaxed, his eyes barely open.

“Hmm,” Jaskier said lightly, from behind him. “Well, it isn't courteous to kiss and tell.”

“I thought it must be a lover,” Geralt said with some satisfaction. Who else, other than a parent, perhaps, would lavish such attention on another person’s comfort? Well. Other than Jaskier, apparently? He was too tired to pursue that thought, and pushed it away, sure there was nothing productive down that road.

“Because I have so many?” Jaskier asked cheerfully. “It’s a fair assumption, isn’t it? Are your eyes closed?”

Geralt nodded, and Jaskier poured another bucket of warm water over his head, rinsing it out again, then ran his hands down through it. He surprised Geralt in another moment by—he had to be kneeling up, curling his arms around Geralt’s shoulders and his neck, then dropping a soft kiss into his hair, against the crown of his head. “There,” he said. “All done. Now, you stay in the bath, get comfortable, let it cool a little, and we’ll see if that can’t bring down your fever. I’ll be back before too long, all right? I’m going to see a girl about some food, and a man about a game of cards.”

“Don’t get into any trouble,” Geralt said, and meant it, tilting his head back so he could get a good look at Jaskier, closing his hand over one of his arms. “I’m in no shape to drag you out of it.”

“You do realize, I get into trouble you’re not around to drag me out of all the time,” Jaskier said, and, shockingly, leaned forward and kissed his cheek. His lips were soft, gentle, the same temperature as Geralt’s hot skin. Geralt blinked at him, winded with surprise, and Jaskier winked, then jumped to his feet, pulled his doublet back on, ran his fingers through his hair, and pulled on his boots, all while Geralt was still staring at him in dull, dazed surprise.

Then again, there was nothing strange about the kiss of friendship, was there? So why did he feel so pole-axed? Jaskier waved at him, gave him a loose salute, and then disappeared out of the room, no doubt to go play Gwent and flirt with the serving girls.

Geralt sighed and put his head down on his arms, letting himself rest, shifting until he was comfortable in the cooling water. Instead of thinking about Jaskier downstairs, he cast his mind back over their current supplies and whether they could get to the next town or village before they would need to restock, and if it was worth it to try when the next town might be just as hostile, if not more.

Still, he found himself dwelling on the simple comfort of the bath, the fire burning in the room, despite the pounding heat and ache of his fever, the pain of his wounds. He wouldn’t have bothered with it—he was certainly capable of procuring a room for himself, but he wouldn’t have troubled himself to stay where he wasn’t wanted, and he certainly wouldn’t have pushed for a bath or a fire or fine wine or any of the rest of it. He closed his eyes, and let the wine carry him off into a doze.

He dreamed of Kaer Morhen. It was when he woke again, later, that he realized it was because it felt like home.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mention of eating, mention of bodily functions (not dwelled on), mention of Jaskier/original female character. Also this chapter deals with some medical care (like stitching wounds) but it isn't too gory or distressing, I don't think?
> 
> “For me,” mused Dandelion, “a mattress without a young woman isn't a mattress at all. It is incomplete happiness...”  
> \--The Sword of Destiny

Geralt wasn’t sure how long he had slept, just that when he woke again, the water was cool against skin that felt cooler, too, that his eyes felt gritty and thick, and that the fire was still merrily burning in the hearth, so that the air shifting over his arms felt cool but not cold, warm enough to still be pleasant, even with feverish chills shaking through him every so often. He shook his head against his arms, felt clean hair fall forward over one of them. His face felt much cooler against his forearms, though still overwarm. His back felt cool, too, in the air, and prickled with a little shiver. The burn still ached, and badly, but it was dulled. He sat back and scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

He realized he’d woken because the door had opened again, was dully horrified at himself for how long that realization had taken him. A jolt of adrenaline went through him, and it was a relief, even after everything, to look up and see Jaskier at the door again, shouldering it open because his hands were full with a tray that seemed to be piled high with food.

“Oh, Jaskier,” Geralt said, relieved.

Jaskier smiled at him. “Geralt,” he said. “Did you get any sleep? Did you miss me terribly?”

There was a kiss-bruise on his neck, above the collar of his travel-stained, bloodied doublet, Geralt noticed. He smiled of perfume, a woman’s delicate flowery scent, or most likely a woman’s, and woodsmoke, and a few other things, too.

“Tell me the lady wasn’t married,” he said, and Jaskier’s face went through a number of emotions very quickly—surprised, delighted, rueful, admiring.

“Ah,” he said, after a moment, closing the door behind him with his foot. “In fact, no. She was having a fight with her dearly beloved, to whom she is not, as such, married, and wished to see me relieve him of his worldly goods through a game of Gwent. Which I, in fact, did. We split the proceeds.”

“And then you fucked,” Geralt said.

Jaskier shrugged and crossed the room to set the tray down on a chair. “And then, as you say, I transported her to heights of pleasure,” he said. “What better way to inspire jealousy, after all. It didn’t take but ten minutes, Geralt; I know what I’m doing. I wouldn’t leave you.”

“I never said you didn’t know what you were doing,” Geralt said.

“So you didn’t,” Jaskier said, smiling, and crossed the room to crouch in front of the tub again. “So,” he said. “How are you feeling?” He reached out, pressed his knuckles and the backs of his fingers to Geralt’s cheek. “Cooler,” he said. “I’m glad of that, at least. Still fevered, I think, but cooler.” He ran his fingers up through Geralt’s hair, pushing it back off his face, away from his forehead.

Geralt found himself swallowing nervously, for some reason. He felt very aware of that touch against his face, each lute-string callus on the tips of Jaskier’s fingers, the gentleness of how they touched him. “Jaskier,” he said, sitting up, and the bard raised his eyebrows at him, looking at him expectantly, sat back on his heels. “Where are my swords?” he asked.

Jaskier gestured with a flourish to the other chair in the room. Now that he’d pointed them out, Geralt could see his swords leaning up against it. “Trust me, my dear witcher,” Jaskier said. “I’m not a fool. Perhaps contrary to popular belief, in some quarters, but still. I know to keep your weapons close by. Besides, you wouldn’t be able to sleep a wink without them in the room with us. I know you, remember.”

Geralt had to allow that he did. The knowledge that he wasn’t weaponless in this room let something in his back, in his muscles, relax. “Hmm,” he said. It was . . . strange to think how well the bard had grown to know him over time. He couldn’t put name to the complicated mixture of emotions that brought to life within him, and he wouldn’t have spoken of them even if he could have.

“Now let’s get you out of this bath and back into bed,” Jaskier said.

It was easier said than done, and Geralt found himself stumbling, his legs wobbling and weak, leaning on Jaskier more heavily than he’d wanted to, again, as the bard caught his arms and braced him with his own body. He nearly took a fall right into the floorboards more than once, but Jaskier somehow managed to keep him on his feet, mostly by constantly switching sides and ducking under him as he took his weight. He was saying something about court dances, some extended metaphor that went nearly entirely over Geralt’s head—it reminded him of a sword form practiced by amateurs—even as he was patting Geralt down with a towel he’d had waiting by the fire so it was warm, drying his hair with both his elbows braced on his shoulders, then the rest of him, exquisitely careful over his wounds with soft little presses of the cloth, swiping it gently over the small of his back and patting his thighs dry but leaving the bite wound to dry as it was. He draped the towel over his hair and used one corner of it to pat his face dry, framing Geralt’s face with his hands as he did, and Geralt felt strangely warm and off balance, had to reach for him again to stay on his feet. Jaskier didn’t stop chattering, even as he helped Geralt use the chamber pot—and fuck but he hated someone helping him with that, even if Jaskier’s lack of apparent caring as he held the pot for him, one hand on Geralt’s waist, made it easier. When he was finished, Jaskier ducked under his shoulder again, under his arm, and braced him long enough for Geralt to stumble into the bed—which had, at some point, been changed to clean linen that smelled of lavender, Jaskier must have paid out a fortune in tips—had it been when the maid had brought the wine?—and collapse there face down.

Jaskier covered him with the sheet, said, “You just lie there for a moment, I’ll take this down to the privy and be right back.” Geralt didn’t open his eyes, just grunted and lay there, appreciating the cool crisp softness of the sheets against his chest, his hip, his knee. His medallion felt warm between his chest and the coolness of the linen.

He might have slept again, he wasn’t sure. He certainly lost track of time, because he was next aware of Jaskier sitting next to him on the bed, and when he opened his eyes and propped himself up on his better arm, he noticed that Jaskier had changed his clothes, and was now dressed in an old pair of breeches that had once been torn by a necker and that he usually wore when Geralt made him do the messier chores around their camp and one of Geralt’s black shirts, his feet bare all over again. He smiled when he saw Geralt looking at him. “Well, I don’t plan on going out again tonight,” he said. “Why not get comfortable?”

“That’s my shirt,” Geralt said.

“So it is,” Jaskier agreed comfortably. “I assumed you wouldn’t mind. My clothes were wet. Don’t tell me if you do.”

Geralt didn’t . . . mind, no. That wasn’t it. He felt hot, and strange, and he felt his nostrils flare, his eyes widen, but he didn’t—mind. He could smell his own scent, overlaid with Jaskier, sweaty and musky from his earlier activities and all achingly familiar. He took a deep breath, dropped his head to stare at the bed beneath him, trying to push all of that to the back of his mind. He didn’t need any of it, and neither did Jaskier.

Jaskier reached down, patted his shoulder. “I’m afraid I should practice my poor attempts at surgery next,” he said. “Your side needs stitching, and I can salve and bandage the rest.”

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed. He’d seen Jaskier repairing his shirts and trousers from time to time by their campfire, and he knew he had neat, tidy stitches. He wasn’t concerned.

“Well,” Jaskier said, lingering over the word as if uncertain himself. “All right.” He patted Geralt’s shoulder, again. “It’s probably for the best if you can doze off a little,” he added, as if half to himself.

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. He let Jaskier tug at his hip, slide another towel or something like it under his hip and chest, tug it up under his shoulder. Jaskier pulled up the sheet, the blankets, over Geralt’s hip, then, folded them over, smoothing them carefully, and Geralt thought he was probably putting it off. He must be nervous? He reached down, found Jaskier’s hand at his hip, patted at it. “You’ll do fine,” he said, thickly, through his weariness. “No harder than stitching a torn shirt.”

Jaskier gave a breathy little laugh, rueful and soft. “Geralt, it’s your _skin_ ,” he said.

“So it is,” Geralt said, and smiled, turned his head in toward the pillow. “I’ll be all right.”

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier said. He took a deep, audible breath, then squeezed Geralt’s hand, back, skimmed his fingers up over his forearm, rested them gently at his elbow. He took another breath, then, and then moved away. He first came back with the pitcher of wine, and poured Geralt another generous mugful, holding it for him until he’d swallowed it down, then gave him another. “Finish the pitcher,” he said, then, and poured him yet another, watching him anxiously as he held it for him and he drank. Geralt sighed, thinking that he’d probably have to relieve himself again, but he drank the rest of the fine wine willingly enough. Jaskier helped him lie back again, hands gentle on his shoulders, then moved off again. Geralt heard the sound of splashing, then, a few moments later, Jaskier was back at his side. He cast a glance back over his shoulder to see Jaskier with a bowl in his hands, setting it down on the low table near the bed. He reached for a cloth in the bowl, wrung it out, then reached for the flask also sitting on the table. “Vodka,” he said, to Geralt’s look. “And I boiled the water. I knew a lovely lady in my days at university who always insisted on boiling water before any surgery.” He drenched the cloth liberally in vodka, then brought it to Geralt’s side. It was hot, and between that and the alcohol it stung dreadfully, so Geralt just closed his eyes and breathed through it. He let Jaskier clean the wound off, flexing his less painful hand into a fist against the blankets in order to keep himself still and quiet. His mind was very fuzzy from the wine and growing fuzzier, so he had that, at least. It did help.

Jaskier upended the flask of vodka over his own hands and Geralt’s side when he was done with that, and Geralt grunted against the stinging wash of alcohol, and the cold as it dripped over his side, droplets running down over the sensitive, flinching muscles of his belly into the towel. “Don’t want to save it?” Geralt grunted.

“I have a bit left,” Jaskier said. “Of course, I’ll be using that for the rest of you. Now—just—be still, all right?”

“I’ll be still, Jaskier,” Geralt told him. He shifted himself against the blankets, until he was sure he was comfortable, enough, and could brace himself against any flinch. Jaskier reached back into the bowl of boiling water and brought out a needle and thread. Jaskier took a deep breath, and Geralt did, too, almost at the same time, simply by instinct.

Perhaps he should buy Jaskier more vodka, he thought, idly, breathing out deeply as Jaskier pinched the edges of the gash together and made the first stitch. It certainly hurt, but the little pinching pain of the needle was nothing compared even to the still throbbing burn on his back, let alone how it had felt to receive the gash in the first place. And it was certainly much easier to lie here, well on his way to entirely drunk, than it would be to stitch the wound closed himself, as he so often did. He really had no complaint to make. He kept himself breathing deep and easy with an effort of will as Jaskier slowly stitched the wound closed, and he was glad when he heard Jaskier’s own breathing steady to match his. The little pain of the needle entering his flesh really was nothing compared to the relaxation the wine in his system brought with it, and Geralt found himself floating again, relaxed, barely aware, as disturbing as the feeling of thread tugging his skin together was. He thought he might be half asleep by the time Jaskier had finished, and he could feel him tying off the thread.

“You took that . . . disturbingly well,” Jaskier said, with a little gulp of a swallow of his own. “Goddess. Maybe I should have saved some of that wine for myself. I feel a tad faint.”

Geralt pushed his knee against the bed, managed to move himself onto his side, tilt himself back just enough to glance back into Jaskier’s face and smile at him in a way that felt sleepy and slow on his face, keeping himself braced with one arm against the bed so that the burn on his back didn’t rub against the sheet. He felt his damp hair shift under his head against the pillow. “Did that very well, Jask,” he said. He reached out for his hand, found his knee, and so squeezed that instead. “You have my thanks.”

Jaskier’s hand came up, clasped his wrist, linked around his arm, and squeezed. “It wasn’t done for your thanks,” he said, and his voice was hoarse, oddly thick. “You needed it. I—told you, you know. Anything for—for a friend.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. He could see the hysteria there in the bard, the way he was breathing quick and shallow, his pallor. “Deep breaths.”

“Right, yes,” Jaskier said, and braced his hands on Geralt’s arm, against his hand, breathing deeply.

“That’s it,” Geralt said. They stayed there for a long moment, hands linked. Geralt’s eyes lingered where their hands were clasped together, then he found himself tracing the lines of Jaskier’s forearms with his eyes, up to where his shirt was rolled up to his elbows, lingering over his face. He noticed again how tired he looked, how his hair was sweaty and tumbling over his forehead. He reached up, pushed it back without thinking.

Jaskier actually jumped under his touch, then gave him a strange look, his forehead knotting. Then he smiled, soft and a little wry, a little strange, too, almost sad, wistful, and leaned forward, brushed Geralt’s hair back from his face, a mirror of the motion Geralt had made, his gentle fingers lingering over his brow, down over his cheekbone, then took his hand, pressed it in his, and brought it back down to the bed. “You need salving and bandaging next,” he said and gave a little laugh. “And trust me, I’m counting my lucky stars that you’re sturdier than a normal man, but I still might very well list bathing and bandaging amongst my skills from now on.”

Geralt smiled again, let Jaskier roll him onto his side, lay one hand against his hip, warm and steadying, beneath the blanket and sheet. His skin felt good against Geralt’s own. Or maybe he was just drunk. “You’re good at it,” he told him honestly. “Got a good touch for it. Gentle hands.”

“You are a flatterer, Geralt,” Jaskier said, and that blithe lightness was back in his tone. “Are you always this effusive when you’re in your cups?”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. “No.” He thought for a moment, with difficulty, through the pleasant haze of the wine, and finally managed, “You’ve seen me drunk before.” A bruxa hunt. The remains of a village, all slaughtered down to the littlest child. Geralt had killed what had once been nothing more than a frightened village girl and was now a rampaging vampiress, watched her die on his silver sword with tears in her eyes, and gone right back to camp and downed two full skins of vodka. He hadn’t spoken once to Jaskier the whole night, but he’d come awake tucked into his bedroll, his swords not far from his hand, and a cup of clear fresh spring water waiting for him the next morning. Jaskier hadn’t played at all the next day, only made a few cursory attempts at conversation, as if in respect for Geralt’s pounding, wretched head. Not the only time Jaskier had seen him well and truly drunk, but perhaps the most memorable.

“And, in fact, none of those times came accompanied by fulsome flattery,” Jaskier said. “I take your point.” He leaned over Geralt, with two tubs of salve that he dropped onto the linen in front of him. “Is either of these better for burns than the other?” he asked.

Geralt grunted. “Right for burns, left for the rest,” he said.

“Yes, thank you,” Jaskier said, briskly. He unscrewed the one on the left and smeared it thickly over the wound on Geralt’s side with a quick, efficient gentleness, then pressed a linen pad of some sort to it and started wrapping around it with more bandages. “I found some bandages in your pack,” he said, “but I left them alone, since we won’t always be staying in an inn, even if the proprietor _could_ learn some manners, so I paid for some clean linen, while I was spending my ill-gotten gains at cards.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. “What do I owe you?”

Jaskier made an impatient noise. “Really, Geralt,” he said. “Please.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted.

“Geralt,” Jaskier said, apparently warming to the subject. “My blushes. My honor is offended. I implore you. You owe me nothing. I wouldn’t have gone card sharping if not to pay for all of this, so we’ll write it off, all right? Or, well, there is one thing.”

“Hmm?” Geralt asked.

“You could keep your mouth shut when I write this into a song,” Jaskier said. “I promise not to be _too_ over the top.”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted, again. But really, he reflected, of all the songs Jaskier had written about deeds that in no way deserved it, this one probably deserved a song more than most. After all, killing monsters was Geralt’s profession, it was what he was for. But Jaskier going to such trouble to doctor him was in no way expected. That was the sort of thing that deserved a song.

“I warn you,” Jaskier said. “I’m going to take that as agreement.”

It had been, so Geralt didn’t protest, just closed his eyes again on a sigh. Jaskier tied off the bandage with a flourish and turned down the blankets enough to reveal Geralt’s wounded thigh. He tucked them under it, gently, and Geralt realized he was doing it partly to preserve his modesty, as if he had any claim to that with Jaskier at this point, turned his leg with his fingers on his knee, his other hand on his hip.

The thigh was, after all, a very vulnerable place to be wounded, and Geralt though that in nine times out of ten he’d have shoved another’s hands away and looked to it himself, even, in most cases, another witcher. After all, there were about a hundred or so ways to kill a man with access to his groin. He felt no urge to pull away from Jaskier’s touch, though, and only a mild discomfort at the depth of the intimacy. Of course, if he had been feeling a bit livelier, it might have been uncomfortable for an entirely different reason, but as it was it was easier not to dwell on that. He swallowed a grunt of pain as Jaskier poured more vodka over the wound, wiped it down with a hot cloth, then spread salve over it. It was probably inappropriate to revel in the gentle carefulness of that touch, and doing so might actually get him in trouble, fever and all, even with the amount of wine he’d consumed, so Geralt tried to keep his mind blank, even as Jaskier pressed another linen pad to the bite wound, then began to wrap it with more bandages.

“Is that too tight?” Jaskier asked, after a moment. “Geralt? I don’t wish to cut off the flow of blood, or humors, or whatever it is you need to have flowing well through there.”

“Hmm,” Geralt finally managed. “No.”

“That’s good, at least,” Jaskier muttered, and tied off that bandage too, with careful quickness that Geralt doubted he could have equaled, even if he wasn’t fevered and drunk and clumsy. The bard shook the blankets back out over him, tucking them in over his hip again, then rolled Geralt forward under them, one hand on his bare hip beneath them again. Geralt realized Jaskier wanted to get at the acid burn on his back and cooperated, rolling forward until he was face down in the bed. This was, he recognized vaguely, going to be one of the more unpleasant wounds to have looked to. He tightened his fist against the bed again and held carefully still.

In fact, as Jaskier rinsed his hands in the water again, then opened the other jar of salve, spreading it on his fingers and then beginning to spread it over the wound, it hurt a very great deal, even as gently as Jaskier touched him and as careful as he was. Geralt bit the inside of his cheek and started to mentally go through lists of monster classifications, the very rare ones that he’d probably never actually encounter—but then the pain began to ease, dropping off rapidly, and he realized that the numbing agent in the salve was taking effect, cooling his heat as it did. The effect was one of startling relief, and he let out his breath in a rush. This batch was more effective than the last one he’d made. The components must have been fresher. He couldn’t remember now. Maybe it was just the care with which Jaskier was applying it—Geralt usually didn’t take such care himself, after all. It was strangely lulling, and Geralt let his breath out in relief, let his hand unclench against the sheet and spread out. Jaskier was speaking to him again, and he made an effort to attend to him, but he was very drunk and very ill and very tired, and the cessation of pain was an intoxication all its own. Jaskier was saying something about the salve itself, what it smelled like, and claiming that his hands were going to smell like that for a week, at least. He said it was tingly on his hands.

“Wash before you touch your eyes,” Geralt managed to grunt, and was proud of getting that much out of his mouth.

“What’s that?” Jaskier said, then, “Oh, yes. I will. Good advice, Geralt, thank you.”

“Mmm,” Geralt said, into the pillow. It was absolutely stupid to feel warm all over just from Jaskier’s absentminded thanks, so he decided he didn’t. He was drunk and feverish, that was all. That was what that soft warmth suffusing his chest and bleeding into his skin was from. Obviously.

“All right,” Jaskier said, sometime later. “Done with that. Let’s get you up.” His ointment-covered fingers smeared on Geralt’s shoulder when he tried to lever him up, and Geralt used his scraped palm against the bed to push himself up before he thought and fell back against it when he flinched as a result, and it was a bit of an ordeal to get himself sitting up again. Once he did, he found himself panting, leaning on Jaskier’s shoulder and chest, his head spinning. But, well, he was drunk. Jaskier took a breath, leaned forward, and pressed his forehead to Geralt’s, clasping his neck with his thumb rubbing once, twice, against his pulse, in a slow, soft circle, before he moved again, taking in a deep, ragged breath. Geralt forced his eyes open, wanting a look at Jaskier’s face, but it swam in the low light, silhouetted against the light of the fire. He blinked, and their eyes met. Jaskier’s thumb swept up, over his jaw and his cheek, and he took a breath, and then moved away. “I hope that didn’t hurt you too badly,” he said, looking Geralt over with a rapid glance, picking up the blankets to get a look at his leg. “Nothing appears to have started bleeding again, at any rate. So if you just stay still—I’m sorry this is so awkward, it’s just that that wound on your back is going to be a bastard of a thing to bandage.”

“Hmm,” Geralt agreed. He tried to brace himself and turn, but it didn’t help much and just pulled painfully at his muscles. He hissed out a breath, and Jaskier swore and stilled him.

“No, just stay there,” he said. Geralt decided he was probably right. He concentrated instead on holding himself up and letting Jaskier press more linen to his back, over the wound, then wind bandages around both his shoulders and down around his chest, under his armpit, to keep it in place. He finally tied the bandages off near Geralt’s neck, carefully tucking the knotted portion under more bandage, and smoothing it out with his fingers.

It was incredible, how much better the burn felt for being salved in coolness and covered, the bandage a reassuring weight over the open rawness of muscle laid open by the acid that had scored over his back and the new skin the potions had healed him enough to have form over it. He sighed and let himself roll onto one side, toward Jaskier, and close his eyes, his head heavy against the pillow. Jaskier rinsed his hands off again, this time using more vodka to scrub off the salve, which Geralt vaguely approved of, then reached for his scraped-up palm, pulled it forward, toward him, and started to salve that with the other ointment. Geralt let his hand rest, open, on Jaskier’s thigh, where Jaskier had put it. It was very strange, to have anyone touching his palm that way, let alone when it was so raw and tender, and he was clearly doing his best to be as gentle as he could.

“You have a great future as one of the Sisters of Melitele,” Geralt told him, chuckling, at one point, and was rewarded with Jaskier looking up at him, his quick smile.

“I know,” he said. “Always my second choice as a career path.” His smile widened, and he ducked his head forward in a way that sent his hair tumbling over his forehead again, his smile inviting Geralt in on the joke. “I’m sure you find it easy to imagine me a silent sister.”

“You? You, the chattering lark?” Geralt chuckled again. “Never.”

“Wine really does loosen your tongue, doesn’t it?” Jaskier said, with a soft laugh.

“I did drink a whole pitcher of it,” Geralt pointed out. “Sweet wine. On an empty stomach. How long was I in that den for, anyway?”

Jaskier was paying a great deal of attention to the spot just under his thumb, smoothing salve over it. “You don’t know?” he said.

“Hmm,” Geralt confirmed.

“A night and a day,” Jaskier said, and it already had the cadence of a song to it.

“Mmm,” Geralt said. That was a long time. He hoped Jaskier hadn’t been too lonely. He’d been aware a good amount of time had passed, but it was a long while to leave the bard on his own except for Roach. “I . . . hope Roach was good company.”

Jaskier laughed. “We spent our time worrying about you, mostly,” he said. He reached for more linen, folded a pad over and pressed it to Geralt’s palm, then started bandaging it, wrapping the strips carefully so that Geralt could still, he noticed with relief, mostly use his fingers, could still grip his sword if he needed to. “But I did write a whole ballad, while I was waiting, so you’re forgiven.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, but Jaskier didn’t expand on that statement. “Really?” he said, finally.

“Yes, really,” Jaskier said. “What, you doubt me? After all this time? After so much evidence of my prowess? When was the last time someone called you the Butcher of Blaviken, my White Wolf?”

“… Hmm,” Geralt said. Mostly because Jaskier was right.

“Hmmm,” Jaskier teased, and laughed, and finished tying off that bandage, too, after winding it down securely over Geralt’s wrist, over his pulse. His thumb brushed there, gently, over the bandage. “There,” he said, and waved a hand over Geralt. “All done. I mean, your face is bruised and so is most of the rest of you, but I think that’s the worst of it done. Unless there’s something else dire you’re not telling me about. There isn’t, is there? Something else dire?”

“Nothing else dire,” Geralt said, his tongue feeling slow over the wounds. Jaskier was leaning in toward him, and it was . . . distracting.

Jaskier blinked at him, reached out and touched his jaw, gently, fingers cupping his cheek. “But there is something else?” he asked. There was so much—softness in his eyes, it made Geralt feel dizzy, like he was falling into that softness. Sometimes he wondered if maybe Jaskier was part siren, or nymph, or lamia, or something like that. Except that he would have known if he was, of course. But his gaze and his voice seemed to affect Geralt all out of proportion to reason at times.

“No,” Geralt said. “Nothing else. Except I might have to relieve myself again,” he added, with some frustration.

Jaskier gave a bit of a laugh. “Then I can help you with that, too,” he said. “Anyway, I brought food. You should eat something. Maybe get a little less drunk, hmm?”

“I am . . . hungry,” Geralt finally decided, after taking stock of his own body, through the haze of wine and relaxation and fever and ache. It took a while for it to occur to him.

“I thought you might be,” Jaskier said, cheerfully. “You usually are, after something like this. Sorry if the food’s not as warm as it might have been.”

Geralt blinked, thinking again about how he had nothing but hard bread and cheese and jerky and some other trail rations in his pack at the moment—maybe some dried fruit? Though between Jaskier and Roach that had a tendency to disappear—and wondering if Jaskier actually imagined he’d mind if the food was a little cold. He grunted, and his hand instinctively fell to the bandaged wound in his side as he pushed himself up a little, trying to find where Jaskier had left that tray of food earlier.

Almost predictably, Jaskier tsked at him, shaking his head, and pushed him back into the bed with one firm hand gently laid against the center of his chest. Geralt could have fought it, but why bother? He subsided willingly enough. “You stay there,” Jaskier said. “I’ll bring the food to you.”

A number of things he might say occurred to Geralt then, chiefly that he had never been waited on in his life like this, but he said none of them. He didn’t feel much like getting out of bed, but he did slide his legs over the side of the bed and lean forward, as soon as Jaskier had moved off to the table.

Jaskier frowned at him. “You’re just terrible at resting, aren’t you?” he said, perching his hands on his hips.

“Hmm,” Geralt said. His head was spinning.

Jaskier sighed and instead of moving the tray of food, just pushed the small table in the room over in front of Geralt, close enough that he could rest his forearms on it, which was a welcome source of support. Only then did he push the tray over in between them.

It looked as if there was a bowl of sorrel soup, with a boiled egg floating in it, some bread, groats, cold sausage and a cold bit of partridge or some other fowl, pickled cucumbers, sauerkraut, a bowl of what looked like hunter’s stew, and two cups of buttermilk, with a bowl of berries on the side. Geralt blinked at it. “How much did you pay for this?” he asked.

Jaskier smiled and winked at him, leaning back in the chair beside the table and popping a berry in his mouth, taking one cup of buttermilk for himself. “A few pennies,” he said. “And a _great_ deal of flirtation with the cook and kitchen maids.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said. It wasn’t that he’d never flirted with a girl and gotten extra food from the encounter. It was just that the girl had to be awfully pretty, first. “There’s a lot of food,” he pointed out.

“You’re an awfully big fellow, my friend,” Jaskier said. “Go on, then. Eat.”

“You’re not going to?” Geralt asked.

“I ate downstairs,” Jaskier said. “But I’ll finish up whatever you don’t.” He took a piece of bread. Geralt decided that that would do and set to eating. He was aware of Jaskier watching him, as he did. It might have been discomfiting, in another situation, but not really, from Jaskier, and not now. Geralt assumed he was just watching to be certain he didn’t pass out face down in the stew, considering the showing he’d made of himself lately. After a while, Jaskier took out his quill and his ink and his notebook and started writing something. He was humming to himself. Geralt left him to it and devoted himself entirely to the meal. It took a bit of concentration, considering how tired and shaky he was, to keep himself upright and keep eating, but the food was surprisingly good for such a small inn in such a small town, and Geralt felt as if he should try to give it his appreciation. He ate most of it, left some of the meat and cucumbers and about a quarter of the stew, and some bread, and pushed it toward Jaskier.

“Finished, are you?” Jaskier said and put his quill away. He leaned in, and he reached out, his hand, cool and gentle, covering Geralt’s wrist. He looked up at him, and his eyes looked concerned. “Are you sure?”

“It was plenty,” Geralt said, made awkward both by the way Jaskier was looking at him and by the suggestion that he’d need more than that. There’d actually been meat, and he hadn’t even had to hunt for it himself. The sorrel soup had even been made with chicken broth; he’d tasted it. Usually he ended up choking down a good deal of jerky and dry bread and maybe cheese if he was lucky at times like this, just to keep himself going until he healed completely. He certainly wasn’t used to people going about flirting with the kitchen to get him a full meal and then some. “Trust me,” he finally, added. “It was . . . more than sufficient.” Ugh, fuck. That had been awkward, too.

Jaskier was frowning at him, but he seemed to believe him, for after a moment he nodded a little, and sat back in his chair, reaching for the food Geralt had pushed his way. Geralt ate a few of the berries, enjoying their sweetness and the vivid flavor, and took another sip of his cup of buttermilk, watching as Jaskier tore off some meat with his fingers and ate it, then did the same to a piece of bread. It was always interesting, watching Jaskier eat. He was careful and delicate unless he remembered himself and used less careful manners. Geralt had known him to be of noble birth before he’d ever said anything about it. It was little things like that that gave him away. Geralt himself was feeling . . . very tired, now, and he didn’t feel up to much more than watching. It was a relief to be done eating, to be honest. He’d been hungry, but toward the end, finishing the stew had begun to feel like a chore, and one he hadn’t been sure he had the strength to finish. Now there was just berries to eat one at a time, which was a pleasure, and buttermilk to drink. That was less of a burden. And he did feel less drunk.

Besides, he’d wanted to be certain Jaskier ate. He had probably eaten downstairs, just as he said, but just in case. He left half the berries for him, too, and watched with pleasure as Jaskier gave him a look after he’d finished with the rest of it and reached for them. He’d known Jaskier would make something of a show of it, because he just . . . did, it was what he did, and he intended to enjoy watching him. After all, his body wasn’t up to getting very excited at the moment, so it was less of a risk than normal to let himself take in Jaskier’s graceful turn of his wrist or the way he would bite the berries in half and suck on them. He didn’t even do it to be purposefully seductive, Geralt didn’t think—he’d seen Jaskier eat to be purposefully seductive, and it was a show in twelve acts. It was just habit, as far as Geralt could tell. And he enjoyed watching it. “These are good, aren’t they?” Jaskier said. “Little jewels of the forest, and so on. I noticed you left some of them for me, Geralt, thank you. You’re quite chivalrous at times, aren’t you? And yet you still won’t let me ride Roach. You’ll want to work on that, if you’re going for the true badge of chivalry.”

“Hmm,” Geralt said, but he smiled while he said it. He knew the warmth he was feeling as he watched Jaskier toss berries into his mouth, bite them in half and suck the juice before he ate the whole thing, lick berry juice off his fingers and wash it down with a swallow of buttermilk, his fine throat working, had nothing to do with his fever this time, and normally Geralt would never have risked playing so near to the flame when he didn’t even have any clothes on, but his wounds and fever and the general weakness of his body had done him this one favor, at least. He let Jaskier give him the last one and knocked their mugs together, which made Jaskier smile and waggle his eyebrows at him, before he finished the last swallow of his own buttermilk.

“All right,” Jaskier said, after that, and jumped to his feet, came around the table. “Let’s get you back into bed. Or, well, you’re in bed already, aren’t you, but lying down again, hmm?” He pushed the table away, then came to push Geralt down against the bed, even helped lift his legs. Geralt got himself braced on one elbow, then lowered himself down, even let Jaskier brush his hair out from under him and back and fuss over the blankets until they covered him up over his chest and he could rest his bare arm atop them, excessive as it seemed to him.

“Jaskier,” he said, after a long moment. “My swords.”

“Who’s going to break in and murder us in our beds?” Jaskier asked, but he did bring them and lay them across the chair, shoving it so it was right up against the bed and in arm’s reach.

“If someone does decide to break in and attempt to murder us in our beds, I’m sure you’d appreciate my being able to defend you,” Geralt said. Of course, he didn’t strictly need bladed weapons to do that, but in his current state he wouldn’t lay odds on his ability to do it barehanded. “What did you do with the dagger I wear in my boot?”

Jaskier fetched it, and Geralt hummed his thanks and slid it under the mattress. It never hurt to be prepared. He caught Jaskier’s wrist before he moved away again. “Jaskier,” he said again, and abruptly realized he didn’t know how to say what he wanted to say, not any of it. “I’m . . . all right. You know that. Don’t you?”

Jaskier smiled at him, but it was a pale, forced thing, a shadow of its usual sunlit brightness, a wilted version of his sunny namesake. “Of course,” he said. “If it didn’t take more than this to kill you, you’d have been dead many times over just since I’ve met you.”

He was right about that. So why all the . . . the concern, the care, the . . . watchful distress? “Then stop . . . fretting,” Geralt said, unable to find any other word for it. “I’m a mutant, you know that. I’m not going to keel over and die. Not just from this.” And why Jaskier would care about that was a mystery he wasn’t particularly eager to fret his own mind over right now, not when he’d already spent plenty of time on it and got mostly nowhere with it. It wasn’t as if Jaskier needed him for a good song; the bard had had plenty of adventures now, fell into them as easily as he breathed, and had developed the ability to write a song about nearly anything. But Jaskier was still staring at him, his eyes wide and heavy with concern, so Geralt gave a little huff of a sigh, carefully didn’t smile, and added, “It would be an embarrassment to my guild.”

That made the other man laugh a little, at least, but then Jaskier sat down on the bed beside him again, and he laid a hand on Geralt’s arm. “I hope you know it would be a great deal more of a loss than that,” he said, all sudden seriousness, and he brushed Geralt’s hair back again, touched the back of his neck.

Geralt swallowed, not sure what to make of that, and found himself looking away. He wasn’t used to—people expressing sentiments like that, especially not toward him. He didn’t know what to make of it. And it had been a joke, at that.

Jaskier let his fingers trail down over the back of his neck, onto the whole skin of Geralt’s shoulder, lingering there, before he drew them away. Geralt’s already hot skin seemed to burn and tingle under his touch. “I wish you could see yourself like I see you,” he said, and with that cryptic comment, he leaned forward, and kissed Geralt’s temple again. His soft lips left fire in their wake. “Sleep well,” he said, apparently not expecting a response, and got up, blew out the candle nearest the bed, and went to the door, leaving Geralt’s throat working with surprise and him staring blankly out into the rest of the room.

Jaskier called something out, softly, into the corridor, and Geralt watched as the maids returned, carried the bath out. Jaskier acted as if he was sleeping and shouldn’t be woken, even though he was sure the bard knew he was still awake. He wasn’t certain if that was meant to be a message to him or not. After the maids had left, Jaskier crossed the room and stared down into the fire, both hands on his hips. Geralt wondered what he was thinking.

“Jaskier,” he said after a moment, and the bard jumped, then reacted with theatrical surprise, clasping his hand to his chest, staggering dramatically to catch himself on the mantle of the fireplace.

“Geralt?” he asked, raising his eyebrows.

Geralt sighed. “What are you doing?” he asked.

“What am _I_ doing?” Jaskier asked him.

“Yes,” Geralt said. “Where are you going to sleep?”

Jaskier peered at him as if he was the one being confusing. “On the . . . floor?” he said, after a moment. “I have a bedroll, and all of that. And I was planning to sleep in the cold, damp—very damp, mind you—forest another night, so after all, this seems like a bargain. I mean,” he smiled a little, “a dry room, with a fire and everything.”

Geralt stared at him. “There’s a bed,” he pointed out. “It’s more than big enough for two. We’ve shared before.”

“We . . . have,” Jaskier said. “Yes, but you’re injured, Geralt. I don’t want to knock into you and—and aggravate anything.”

Jaskier lying on the floor when they had a perfectly good bed was aggravating. Usually the other man was quick to claim whatever creature comforts existed. Geralt wasn’t sure he liked this self-denial on him at all. “Get over here,” he said, after a moment of trying to rephrase it in his head and not getting anywhere. “Unless you’re not going to sleep yet,” he added, as an afterthought. But Jaskier looked—well, he looked exhausted.

“You’re clean,” Jaskier said, then. “And I haven’t bathed.”

“Mmhmm,” Geralt said. “And? Usually it’s the other way around, and it never seems to bother you then.”

“I don’t believe I ever said it didn’t bother me,” Jaskier said, which was a purely semantic argument. One of the unfortunate habits created by a university education, Geralt assumed. Jaskier was studying his nails. It was a tell of his, one he usually concealed better than that, when he was playing cards, at least.

“You’ve given a good show of it, then,” he said. He wished he had some idea what, exactly, Jaskier was about. Fine, then. There had been something else he’d wanted to ask, after all. “If you’re not tired, what’s this ballad you were talking of earlier?”

“I—what?” That had gotten Jaskier’s attention, right enough.

“The new one,” Geralt clarified. “The one you—wrote while you were waiting for me.” It felt very strange to say that aloud.

“Yes?” Jaskier said. “What—about it, exactly?”

“Well, what is it?” Geralt asked.

Jaskier was staring at him. The silence seemed to stretch on a long time. A very long time, considering it was Jaskier.

“What?” Geralt asked, uncomfortably.

“That’s the first time you’ve ever expressed any interest in my work,” Jaskier said, and his voice was a little high-pitched. “Do you—are you sure you’re all right?” He frowned and tilted his head to one side. “Are you really Geralt, after all?”

Geralt snorted a laugh, but he approved of Jaskier’s caution. “Toss me a silver and find out,” he said, and Jaskier gave a surprised sounding laugh and then dissolved in laughter entirely, apparently genuinely bracing himself on the hearth now. For a long, long moment, Geralt couldn’t figure out why, and then he ran it back through his head, came up with, _toss a coin to your witcher_ , and shook his head at himself.

“Oh, come on, Jaskier,” he said.

“Sorry,” he said, still laughing. “Sorry, it’s just too—too funny. The irony. I. Anyway.” He rubbed his mouth, took a deep, shaky breath, rubbed tears of laughter out of his eyes, and then reached in his coin pouch and tossed a silver coin across the room in a low, loose, glittering arc.

Geralt caught it with no trouble. “See?” he asked him, holding it in his obviously non-burning, uninjured palm up and out.

“Okay, so you are Geralt, probably,” Jaskier said, and caught the coin himself when Geralt tossed it back toward him, which was significantly more of an achievement than Geralt catching it in the first place, considering the difference in their respective reflexes. He dropped it back into his purse and crossed his arms, staring at Geralt across the room. “That doesn’t explain this sudden interest.”

“Well, if you don’t want to tell me about it,” Geralt said, feeling strangely, unaccountably hurt, and not knowing why, and feeling stupid for that, “you don’t have to.”

“I never said that,” Jaskier said, in a rush. “I’d absolutely love to tell you all about it. I just had the impression that it would possibly bore you, at best? I—no, no, never mind. No more explanation necessary, Geralt. I—what do you want to know?”

“Is there music to it yet?” Geralt asked, mollified by the rushing urgency of Jaskier’s words, the eagerness and genuine wanting in his voice. The inside of his chest felt warm again, and the relaxation was returning to his muscles, the warmth creeping through the rest of him too.

“Y-es?” Jaskier said, a bit hesitantly. His hand reached out, twitched toward his lute, then fell again.

“Well?” Geralt asked. “Are you going to sing it to me or not?”

Jaskier stared at him, and Geralt could hear his heartrate tick up. He was turning pink, and as Geralt watched, he rubbed at his face, ran his hand back into his hair, and stared at him, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Um,” he said. “I mean, I’d have to be . . . quiet, but—you want me to? It’s still—I mean, it’s an awfully new composition, and I—I mean. I—mean. You’d want me to?”

Geralt was of half a mind to say that he’d hardly have asked if he didn’t want it, would he, but then he took a glance at Jaskier, who was almost never off balance or discomfited, standing over there, stammering and blushing, biting his bottom lip, his eyes huge, his face as lit up as if he’d given him a bardic coronet, and he said instead, his voice rasping and gruff in his throat, “As long as you won’t mind if I fall asleep. I’m not exactly at my best at the moment.”

Jaskier gave a little laugh. “I know that,” he said. “After all, who exactly spent the last however many hours looking after you?”

“Exactly,” Geralt said. “Good.” He closed his eyes, opened them again, and moved his better hand back, patted the bed beside him. “Get over here, and sing to me, lark.”

Jaskier gave a choked, strange, high-pitched laugh, said, “Then your wish is my command, White Wolf,” and then he took one candle, blew out the others, picked up his lute case, and crossed the room. He didn’t speak for a moment as he put the lute on the bed, pushed it gently over, treating it with the same gentle care he always treated his lute with, put the candle on the table, then climbed over Geralt and slid into the bed next to him. “You really are hot,” he said, and his hand lingered on Geralt’s shoulder. He moved his hand up, pressed the backs of his fingers against his cheek, his jaw. “Should I do something to bring that down again?”

“Maybe if I’m still running a fever this high tomorrow,” Geralt allowed, unwillingly. The same night he’d been wounded it was just to be expected, nothing more. “Now. I was promised a song.”

“Demanding audience, aren’t you?” Jaskier said and ran his fingers gently over Geralt’s shoulder again. “No, no, you stay there, just as you are. I hear you, and I don’t intend to deny you. Trust me.” He took out his lute, settled it in his lap, strummed a note, then made a sound and adjusted the tuning. “Give me a moment,” he said.

“Mmm,” Geralt agreed, and closed his eyes, pleased at how well that had worked to get Jaskier in bed with him, after all. It hadn’t exactly been a plan, but it had worked out all the same, hadn’t it?

Jaskier tuned the lute for another few moments, and Geralt felt himself relaxing still further just at the sound of it. Jaskier tuning, Jaskier idly playing—it had begun to mean safety, familiarity to him. That he wasn’t alone. That in a sense though Jaskier was a burden in some ways, someone else other than himself that Geralt had to protect, he was also another set of eyes and ears, someone to do some of the work, someone to pick up some of the slack, if Geralt fell short, just as he was doing now. And . . . company. There was that, too. Geralt had certainly never sought out the friendship of anyone like Jaskier—bright, playful, a poet of burgeoning fame and a musician who loved life and love, fell in love as easily as he fell into bed, and had a quick, witty tongue and a tendency to let it run and get himself into trouble. He never would have, on his own. But strange as it was to be known as Jaskier’s Witcher, the one the songs were about, it was much better than to be known as the Butcher of Blaviken, a name that still soured Geralt’s stomach and the back of his throat and made his guts ache with guilt and regret. Strangest of all to know, as he had for some time now, that Jaskier had worked to improve his reputation, to make certain no one called him by that name again. When he’d punched the young songbird for daring to call him that hated name, all those years ago, he certainly hadn’t expected him to turn around and simply work to make certain no one else called him that ever again.

It had been the first time he’d underestimated Jaskier, but certainly not the last. Clearly. He’d underestimated him again, even, up until earlier that very day. You’d think a witcher would have better perception. But no, Geralt had been a fool. As per usual.

Jaskier’s hand came down gently against his hair. “Geralt?” he said. “Are you awake?”

“Hmm,” Geralt grunted. “I’m awake. I was promised a song. I’m waiting to hear it.”

Jaskier’s laugh was light and bright and a little nervous. “All right, all right,” he said. “Hmm.” He hummed a few notes, then began to play. He’d always had a good touch on the lute, which Geralt had noticed from the beginning, though he didn’t think he’d ever said as much to him. Surely Jaskier already knew, or why else would he have chosen his profession? He gave a bit of a long musical introduction, a sweet melancholy little tune in a minor key, bright but wistful, then repeated it, slowing down a bit, and only then did he begin to sing, low and soft, clearly pitched for Geralt’s ears alone.

He had called it a ballad, but in Geralt’s experience, ballads had a great deal of narrative, and this one didn’t, really, just vague mentions of adventures the poet had been on with the one he waited for, couched in poetic language that elided them gently into vague pictures whose excitement faded into the fondness Jaskier sung of for his missing friend. It had been Geralt’s experience that songs were mostly lies, giving a sense of excitement and heroism when there’d been nothing but blood and guts, of love when there’d been nothing but ugliness and heartache, making war seem exciting, stirring, rather than stomach-churning and mostly pointless. This song, though, struck Geralt as very honest, and as such struck a chord in his own heart and left it quivering like one of Jaskier’s lute’s strings. Jaskier kept his gentle tenor and the tune sweet, soft, and wistful, not quite slow or mournful, but longing and pensive, as he sang of worry, of waiting anxiously, of his admiration for his missing friend and his own fear that he was nothing but useless, waiting rather than helping. The song concluded on the resolution that the least he could do was, if his friend should die, to sing of him, so that others would know what he did for them, for all of them, and why Jaskier felt as he did. Geralt surprised himself by finding his throat closed and wet to the point he had to clear it before he could speak, when Jaskier’s last chord had trailed off into the quiet of the night, and the bard gave a nervous little cough, and his voice came out thick and even lower and rougher than usual when he did speak.

“That’s good, Jask,” he said, not trusting himself to say more. Some of the lines did scan rather poorly, and a few of the rhymes were forced, but that hardly mattered.

“I know it’s just . . .” Jaskier said, then, “What? It’s—it’s good? You—you think so?”

“It sounds . . . it’s honest,” Geralt said, and had to blink rapidly, because it was—it was an unfamiliar feeling, even after all Jaskier’s songs about him, to hear such heartfelt emotion poured out in song, and about _him_. Him, of all people.

“Trust that to win you over,” Jaskier said, with a sweet little chuckle that sounded strange, twisted and almost wet in his throat. His hand came up, pet gently through Geralt’s hair, the backs of his fingers pressed lightly at the back of Geralt’s neck. “You do make straightforwardness a virtue, don’t you?”

“It is,” Geralt agreed, because he’d rather have a straightforward path clear in front of him than a confused, branching mess of a situation or confused, confusing words any day. He blinked his eyes open, stared across the room at the banked coals of the fire. “It was—thank you, Jaskier. Assuming you—you meant all that. And it wasn’t just for the sake of the song.”

“Of course I meant it,” Jaskier said, with a bit more fire in it. “Geralt, really. I did say you were my friend, did I not?”

“You did,” Geralt allowed, and he let himself smile, because he’d thought it had sounded heartfelt, and it had been.

“So why do you persist in doubting me?” Jaskier asked, and now his voice was light, but Geralt thought perhaps he meant it heavily all the same. He caressed Geralt’s neck with a gentle rub of his knuckles.

It was a good question, Geralt allowed. It was just . . . hard to believe, he supposed. Why would someone like Jaskier see him as a friend at all, let alone insist on it the way he did? Why would he _care_ so much? It made no sense. So he didn’t quite understand it, and thus he didn’t think about it, and it was easier to act as if it wasn’t true.

After all, if in the end it wasn’t, or Jaskier decided he wasn’t worth the trouble anymore, he wouldn’t have believed it anyway, and so—well, it wouldn’t hurt, would it? It made the most sense that way.

He knew Jaskier deserved better than a monosyllabic answer this time, but it was . . . difficult to find the right thing to say. The right thing he _could_ say. “You proved yourself reliable today,” he said, finally. “Thank you for all of this. You’ve been . . . very good to me, Jaskier.”

“Good to him, he says,” Jaskier said, as if to the ceiling, but then he rolled over on his side, beside Geralt, and curled his arm around his neck, kissed the top of his head. His body felt very present and warm, curled around Geralt’s shoulders like that. “I did do my best,” he said. “Someone should look after you sometimes, you stubborn witcher. And I happen to be present. I’m just glad I could help. Please, will you do me a great favor?”

He had helped a very great deal. “Of course,” Geralt said instantly, and it rasped in his throat.

“Stop thanking me,” Jaskier said. His breath fluttered against Geralt’s hair. “No more thanks, for at least a week.”

“But,” Geralt said. “I—you deserve it.”

“That may be,” Jaskier said. “But you have already given me many thanks, and I count myself well rewarded already. As I said, I did this for friendship and loyalty and love and gallantry, not for thanks.” He tousled Geralt’s hair, then pulled back. “All right?”

“All . . . right,” Geralt agreed, finally.

“My thanks to you, then,” Jaskier said, softly. He skimmed his fingers through Geralt’s hair a little more, then reached up for the pillow, fluffed it up, slid it further under Geralt’s head, then took the other two in the bed and pushed them behind him, leaning into the carved headboard. He patted Geralt’s shoulder, idly, and then strummed his lute again. He started to sing an old song Geralt had heard before, about the night in the meadows and forests and fields, and Geralt sighed and closed his eyes and let himself listen. Jaskier seemed to be choosing soothing songs, and Geralt let them carry him nearly to sleep. He was barely aware when Jaskier climbed over him in bed, slid out of it over his legs, carefully put his lute away in the case, and then put the case away elsewhere. He came back, coaxed Geralt up, bracing him with his shoulder, and got him to relieve himself again, then left, shutting the door behind himself lightly, no doubt to travel to the privy once more.

Geralt settled back into the bed and closed his eyes. He often struggled to sleep, but he knew he wouldn’t tonight. He was too exhausted, too relaxed, too weak, and on top of all of it, he felt too safe to fight it. When Jaskier returned to the room, almost silently, Geralt kept his eyes closed and his breathing easy, even as Jaskier hesitated, then crossed the room to his side again. He climbed into bed on Geralt’s other side, so that he was between Geralt and the wall, settled himself in, then leaned over him, blew out the candle.

“Sleep well, my friend,” he said, softly, almost in Geralt’s ear, close enough that his lips brushed it, his voice soft enough not to bother even with Geralt’s sensitive hearing, and then he curled up behind him, facing the other direction.

They lay there in silence for a moment, and Geralt found himself listening to Jaskier’s breathing, slowing toward sleep, the steady beating of his heart. He rolled over onto his other side, careful of his back, and watched him for a moment.

When he was certain Jaskier was asleep—he really must have been exhausted, because he’d gotten there with a minimum of fidgeting and restlessness—Geralt reached up, and he touched his hair, in return, the way Jaskier had been touching his all night. It was sweaty—Jaskier was right that he could have used a bath—and clung to his fingers. Geralt let them stroke down carefully over his hairline, the back of his neck, let himself linger over the steady human pulse, so quick under his fingers, in his neck, then sighed and brought them away.

He rolled back over onto his other side and let himself drift into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I didn't get them together - I did say this was pre-slash, right? I wanted this fic to be able to fit into show canon without going AU.
> 
> (I could do a sequel . . . ?)
> 
> As for the title - well, Jaskier's mattress has someone else in it, but it's not because of Geralt not being a young woman that his happiness is incomplete . . . .


End file.
